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WALLACE WEST

STORIES

OUTLAW QUEEN OF VENUS (Novelet) by Wallace West 8

Sadie Thompson knew all the answers — but they were answers to chill even a spaceman's blood!

WHAT'S IN A NAME? (Short) by Berkeley Livingston 36

Lou had always found it an easy-matter to pick up 01 girl. But this was one he wanted to lose!

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR (Novelet) by David Wright O'Brien. . . 50

Kerwin was indebted to these ghosts. He paid them off by pointing out a fact they'd overlooked.

THE MUSKETEERS IN PARIS (Novelet) by William P. McGivern. ... 92

The same qualities that had overwhelmed Cardinal Richelieu proved too much for the Nazis.

LETTER TO THE EDITOR (Short) by (?) 120

Either this is definite proof of time-travel — or a very, very unfunny practical joke indeed!

A THOUGHT IN TIME (Short) by Leroy Yerxa 128

All Percy wanted was a job. Instead, he found himself in love — and accused of murder.

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST (Novelet) by Lee Francis 142

Jim Wedge had to go to the deck of a Dutch galiot, 300 years in the past, to learn tolerance.

LEFTY FEEP'S ARABIAN NIGHTMARE (Short) by Robert Bloch 178

Lefty teamed up with Ali Ben Alikat to give the Axis a new secret weapon — in reverse!

FEATURES

The Editor's Notebook 6 Vignettes of Famous Scientists 141

New Use for Blood Plasma 49 Romance of the Elements 176

Fantastic Facts 125 Reader's Page 195

Fronf cover painting by Rod Ruth, illustrating a scene from "Outlaw Queen of Venus." Back cover paint-
ing by James B. Settles, illustrating a scene from "Appointment with the Past." Illustrations by Julian
S. Krupa; Virgil Finlay; H. W. McCauley; J. Allen St. John; Robert Fuqua; Magarian; Rod Ruth.

ZIFF-DAVIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
Member of the Audit Bureau of Circulations

William B. Ziff, Publisher; B. G. Davis, Editor; Raymond A. Palmer, Managing Editor;

Howard Browne, Assistant Editor; Herman R. Bolin, Art Director; H. G. Strong, Circulation Director.

We do not accept responsibility for the return of unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. To facilitate handling, the
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part of material purchased.

The names of. all characters that are used in short stories, serials and semi-fiction articles that deal with types
are fictitious. Use of a name that is the same as that of any living person is coincidental.

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES is published bi-monthly by ZIFF-DAVIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
at 540 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago 11, 111. Washington office, Earle Building, Washington 4,
D. C. Special Washington representative. Col. Harold E. Hartney, Occidental Hotel. London edi-
-crp-D-RTT a -R v torial representative, A. Spencer Allberry, Chandos Cottage, Court Road, Ickenham, Uxbridge, Middx.,
England. Entered as second-class matter August 17, 1943, at the Post Office, Chicago, Illinois,
1944 under the Act of March 3rd, 1879. Subscription $2.50 (12 issues); Canada, $3.00; Foreign, $3.50.

Subscribers should allow at least two weeks for change of address. All communications about sub-
scriptions should be addressed to the Director of Circulation, 540 North Michigan Avenue. Chicago

11, Illinois.

VOLUME 6
NUMBER 1

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES ' 5

7JU Smei

MENTAL CREATING

r ? you just like to dream; read no further. There
comes a time when your fancies must be brought
into light — and stand the test of every-day, hard
realities. Are you one of the thousands — perhaps
millions — whose thoughts never get beyond th^
stage of wistful wishing? Do you often come to
from a daydream with the sigh, “If only I could
bring it about — make it real?”

All things begin with thought — it is what fol-
lows that may take your life out of the class of
those who hope and dream. Thought energy, like
anything else, can be dissipated — or it can be made
to produce actual effects. If you know how to place
your thoughts you can stimulate the creative proc-
esses within your mind — through them you can
assemble things and conditions of your world into
a happy life of accomplishment. Mental creating
does not depend upon a magical process. It con-
sists of knowing how to marshal your thoughts into
a power that draws, compels and organizes your
experiences into a worth-while design of living.

ACCEPT THIS Tue BOOK

Let the Rosicrucians tell you how you may ac-
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religious organization), a world-wide philosophical
fraternity, have preserved for centuries the ancients J
masterful knowledge of the functioning of the inner
mind of man. They have taught men and women
how to use this knowledge to recreate their lives.
They offer you a free copy of the fascinating book,
“The Mastery of Life.” It tells how you may re-
ceive this information for study and use. Use
coupon opposite.

sb* Rosicrucians

(amobc)

SAN JOSE CALIFORNIA

S OME months ago Donald Wollheim, who is
an authority on good science and fantasy fic-
tion, acted as judge in selecting a number of
the best classics in modern science fiction, and
selected two from the back files of Amazing
Stories, our sister magazine. One was by Wallace
West, and was titled “The Last Man.” Although
Mr. West has done nothing for us in nearly ten
years, this event urged him to repeat — and repeat
he did! We point with pride to our cover story
this month as a very fine story indeed, by a very
fine author. It is “Outlaw Queen Of Venus” and
we think it is even better than his classic “The
Last Man.” Read it and see.

C ONTRARY to our usual policy, this issue we
have two cover stories — one on the back cover.
The painting, by . James B. Settles, illustrates a
scene from “Appointment With The Past” by Lee
Francis. This author, for your information, scored
a tremendous hit with his story in the last issue
“Witch of Blackfen Moor” to follow up his equal-
ly smashing success with “Citadel Of Hate” in
our June, 1943 issue. Thus we are proud to present
another yam by one of the most promising au-
thors to come up from the ranks in recent years.

S PEAKING of promising authors, we find our-
selves with the skull-swelling task of announc-
ing two in one month ! And you’ll fall flat on
your face, as we did (with the aid of some power-
ful pushing on the part of the readers !) , when you
learn his name. Yes, it’s Leroy Yerxa! Here’s
a lad who crashed in in great style with his first
story, then went through two years of effort, some
of it under a barrage from the readers, that elicited
nothing except perhaps our admiration for his
tenacious and bulldogged determination. Then,
at long last, the flood began. Letters, letters,
letters! Okay, Leroy, you win. We, as editors,
smashed you down time and again, until any
other man would have given up in despair at so
much re-writing. But you just grinned and went
on. You quit your job to give full time to writ-
ing. With four children, that takes guts — more
than we’ve got. Readers, you can’t imagine the
sigh of relief we now draw, faced with your com-
ment on his stories. We admit we bought a lot
of stories maybe because of those four kids — but
the readers don’t rave through sympathy! But
that’s the way editors gamble. This time we win !
And congrats to Leroy Yerxa, a name you’ll be

seeing again and again ! This issue it’s “A Thought
In Time.”

'X'lIIS issue we have a story without an author!

We’re trying to pin it on Scott Feldman, but
with little success. But it’s all explained in an
editorial footnote after the story, so we won’t
dwell on it here. But it’ll give you something
to think about! The title is “Letter To The
Editor” — and what a letter !

CADLY we present the last story in our files
^ by David Wright O’Brien, who is now a gun-
ner in Uncle Sam’s biggest plane, the B-29, which,
by the time this sees print, ought to be making
history slapping down the Nazis and the Japs from
distances that make our head swim to contem-
plate. Yes, that B-29 is a ship such as even sci-
ence fiction never dreamed about! The story is
“The Place Is Familiar” and that might be ap-
plicable to Toldo later on, insofar as O’Brien and
the B-29 are concerned!

“VVJHAT’S In A Name?” asks Berkeley Living-
' ' ston. Anyway, that’s the title to his newest
story in this issue. We think you’ll like it as
well as the Finlay illustration accompanying it.
Incidentally, this magazine (and Amazing Stories)
are the only magazines in which you’ll find the
work of this famous artist, since he’s gone to war.
All due to our foresight in buying a stock from
him, done without stories previously being writ-
ten. Thus, as we have the stories done, the il-
lustrations will appear. Keep your eye open for
them.

npHE final story in the McGivcrn-McCune
“Three Musketeers” feud is in this issue. It’s
“The Musketeers In Paris.” We think you’ll like
it as well as the first two stories about these
characters.

DY the way, both William P. McGivem and
David Wright O’Brien dropped in on us for
coffee, while enroute to their war duties, having
finished training — and we never saw two lads who
looked better. Our secretary fairly swooned with
adulation and we felt nothing but sheer admira-
tion. Losing forty pounds certainly did things
to them! O’Brien is doing a local radio show as
part of his duties for the air force!

(Continued on page 34)

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

BIBI

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Volume 3 — The Secret Album of Asia
Volume 4 — The Secret Album of America
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1,000 Strange and Secret Photos

By WALLACE WEST

tc O YOU’RE on the Venus run,
eh?” Old Tom polished the
' Moon Station Cafe bar and
squinted at the nervous youth in Space
Patrol uniform who was nursing along
his “ham and” as though it might be
hislqst.

“Yeh.”

“Goin’ to Wildoatia, eh, captain,”
persisted the counter man.

“Yeh.” His customer looked up
slowly. “Why?”

“Oh, a fellow just gets lonesome to
talk to somebody. How are things
back home?”

“Dull.”

The destiny of every downtrodden man
on Venus hung on the woman’s wit of Sadie
Thompson/ tough gamin of a tougher world!

“They finished that Sahara irrigation
job yet?”

“How’d you know?” The youngster
jumped up, overturning his chair.

“Don’t know nothin,’ sir . . . Want
some more coffee ’fore you fire off?
You won’t get much of it out there.”

“You mean . . . ?” The other righted

his chair and sat down on the edge of it.

“Oh, there’s plenty of food ... if
you’re lucky, but it usually tastes like
nothing a human should eat.”

“You sound as if you’d been on
Venus.”

“Have.” Tom was polishing the
spotless bar again.

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“You , . . you didn’t make your
fortune, then?”

“Made it, and lost it.”

“Look,” said the captain when the
silence became unbearable, “would you
mind telling me what you found? I
... I never met anybody before that’s
been to Wildoatia. Read a lot of stories,
but ...”

Old Tom stuffed his cloth under the
bar and drew himself a cup of black
coffee.

“No,” he said after due considera-
tion. “They won’t let me . . . Want
some pie?”

“I — I guess so. Apple.”

“Here y’are. . . . How old would
you say I am?”

“Oh,” the officer was trying to be
polite, “about sixty.”

“Forty-one!”

“Gee!”

“Twenty years ago I was working on
the Sahara Project. . . . They’d just
started it. I was a high-strung kid with
plenty of hair and a flat belly and given
to reading Stevenson and Asher and
Kipling ’stead of spending my nights
studying engineering. I can remember
as if it were yesterday how I used to
dream about pirates and wars and strat-
osphere dog fights like they had in the
good old days. You know what I
mean?”

“Yeh.” The youngster prodded his
canned pie thoughtfully. “And beau-
tiful wicked women and pleasure cities
and making a million francs at roulette
and blowing it in at the races. Sure.
Go on.”

“They used to talk about how con-
quering the Sahara was man’s greatest
adventure since he’d reached the plan-
ets .. . how the next job was to make
the poles blossom.” Tom eyed his
guest sharply. “Rut it didn’t stick, did
it?” The other fell into the trap.

“Uh huh. Every day you go out

and burn that channel another mile
through the sand. And every night you
come back dead tired and have to
study, study, study to keep from lag-
ging behind the rest of the crew. No
wars. . . . Not even a Bedouin left.
No excitement except in books and
telies. You blame me for getting fed
up too?”

“Nope,” said the other. “You’re just
an atavar like I used to be. Can’t help
yourself. Don’t fit into this collecti-
vized solar system any more than you
do into that uniform. . . . Now, now!
Put up that gun! I won’t turn you
in and somebody might get suspicious
if they saw you wavin’ it around.”
“Guess if you’d wanted to turn me
in I couldn’t have stopped you,” mut-
tered the kid as he shoved his automatic
back into a shoulder holster. “I reck-
on you’re right about my being an ata-
var. The Commissioner said so too.
Talked to me like a Dutch Uncle for
hours. Tried to get me to see the error
of my ways. When I kept insisting I
wanted to go to Venus and sow some
wild oats he finally had to make me a
pass with a one-year return privilege.”

“'C'AT chance you’ll ever get to come
back. The Big Shots will see to
that. Say, how come the government
didn’t ship you out on a freighter like
they do the rest of the incorrigibles?”
“They were going to, but I . . .” His
mouth snapped shut.

“You nicked a uniform and a patrol
boat in some repair yard. And now
you’re holding your breath while she’s
being refueled for fear they’ll discover
it and helio you down. Well, I wish
you luck.”

“You almost sound as if you’d like
to go along. . . . There’s room.”
“Nope. I’m too old. Heart can’t
stand the acceleration any more. I’m
stuck here for life. But you have my

OUTLAW QUEEN OF VENUS

thanks just the same, Mr.— — ”
“Name’s Frank.”

“Well look, Frank. You got any
money?”

“Money? You mean . . . ?”

“Yeh. Money. Spelled m-o-n-e-y —
Gold. Silver. In other words, cash.”
“Where’d I get money? It hasn’t
been used for 200 years.”

“It’s being used every day on Venus.
Know what they do to incors who land
without any? Chuck ’em in a concen-
tration camp and make ’em work like
Billy-be-damned for a year — until their
return pass expires — and then they
work ’em some more, just for luck.”
“But I thought ...”

“So did I. But Wildoatia’s no land
of chivalry, ladies in distress and
knights on horseback, ’cep ting one
that’s sort of a legend. Not any more.
Times are tough there. And the Big
Shots are tough. Tougher’n anybody
you ever ran up against, even the com-
missars. You’ve got to be tough too, or
you go under.”

“Excepting one? What’s that?”
“Oh, they tell of a gal dressed in red,
wearing a mask, toting a gun and riding
hell-bent-for-leather on a winged horse.
Hell, there never was a horse on Venus,
much less a winged nag!”

“It’s a strange world . . .” said
Frank dubiously.

Old Tom snorted. “Not that legend.
I know. But to get back to real things.
About you now. . . .”

“But what’ll I do? I can’t quit now.
The fellows would laugh me off the
earth.”

“Stick around.” Old Tom climbed
off his stool and moved heavily through
a swinging door which led to his living
quarters. He returned shortly and
tossed a clinking money belt onto the
bar. “There you are. My fortune,
as you called it. Five thousand smack-
ers. Never knew why I brought ’em

back. No good to me on Earth or the
Moon.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“Now look.” The counter man was
all business. “If you land with a
patrol ship and that money for a stake
you’ll have a chance — to survive, at
least. But you won’t be there five
hours before someone’ll try to take
them both away from you, see? It’s
tooth and claw, free competition, no
holds barred and devil take the hind-
most on Venus. . . . Can you handle
that gun?”

“Pretty well. I used to practice
drawing and shooting when I should
have been studying.”

“Fine. First man that makes a pass
at you, don’t argue and don’t wait for
him to draw. . . . Shoot him between
the eyes.”

A door banged open and a grease-
smeared mechanic stuck his head into
the lunchroom.

“Ship’s ready for blasting, captain,”
he called.

“Two things more, son.” Old Tom
leaned over the counter and gripped
his new friend’s shoulder. “First, re-
member that hate, greed, envy and sus-
picion are cardinal virtues in Wildoatia
and that pity and honesty are unforgiv-
able sins, while murder is the only logi-
cal end to a quarrel. Second, if the go-
ing gets too tough, look up Sadie
Thomp at Venusport City and whisper
to her that Tom Griggs — that’s me — is
a friend of yours. Happy landings.”

CREELING as though he had just been
tossed into an icy pool, Frank
trudged slowly out of the lunch room
and into the vast hemispherical hangar.
There his little globe-shaped space pa-
trol lay in the smallest cradle, aimed at
the automatic “shutter” which served
both as a means of egress and to keep
out the cold of space.

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“All ready, captain.” The chief
mechanic saluted Frank’s stolen uni-
form. “The orbit’s almost perfect.
You won’t have to make more than a
one degree correction when you wake.
Blast off in ten minutes. Correct, sir?”

“Correct.” He saluted in return, then
climbed into the cramped cabin, laced
himself carefully into the anti-shock
hammock and swallowed three Suspen-
so tablets.*

As the drug took effect and his heart-
beats became fainter and farther apart
Frank thought hazily of Tom Grigg’s
concluding words. The adventure telies
had never pictured anything like this.
No wonder the government frowned on
them. Had the Old West and the Last
War been like that too? Looked as
if he’d made a bad mistake. Oh, well.
. . . Should have written down that—
name — Sadie — Thompson. . . . Some
blousy boarding house keeper, prob-
ably — with heart of gold. . . . Mustn’t
forget — between — the — eyes.

When he came out from under the
Suspense the chronometer indicated
that thirty-two days had passed. Mov-
ing as stiffly as a rusty hinge, he un-
laced himself from the cradle and stag-
gered weakly to the observation port.
The forward rockets were spurting at
two-minute intervals and Venus’ mys-
terious, cloud-covered surface blotted
out all but a narrow margin of the
round, cross-haired window.

He studied the charts carefully. The
Moonport super had said he ■would need
to make a one-degree correction. He
shifted the quadrants gingerly until the
disc below was exactly centered. Then
he slumped into a chair and reached for
a can of tomatoes to stay his ravening
thirst and hunger. This at least was a

* These tablets make space travel possible by
inducing suspended animation and thereby elimi-
nating the necessity for fantastic cargoes of food,
water and air. — E d.

lot simpler than blasting off from Earth,
where he had had no cradle to start
from and had streaked all over the sky
before managing to chart a course for
the Moon.

If the super was right, the patrol
ship would break through the cloud
barrier directly over Venusport land-
ing field, but — he sat up with a start — -
did he want to land at Venusport? Old
Tom’s warning rang in his ears: “You
won’t be there five hours before some-
one’ll try to take them both away from
you, see?”

Slowly his hand reached out and
shifted the quadrants. Might as well
take no chances. An out-of-the-way
field was safer.

piVE hours later he plunged into

those clouds — clouds that floated so
many leagues above the planet that all
water vapor was frozen in them, a fact
which had delayed exploration for dec-
ades because astronomers insisted that
no life would be found beneath.

The observation port went gray.
Down, down the ship sank, still deceler-
ating so fast that Frank felt as though
he weighed a ton. What if the cloud
bank went right down to the ground,
he wondered. Would the automatic
land her, or would she be flattened like
a pancake?

Just as the suspense threatened to
drive him mad, the woolly blanket
whipped away and he caught sight of a
weird, half-lighted world below.

Master of the situation once more,
he cut out the automatics and drifted
her down by hand to ground with a
sodden thud at last in a thicket of
sickly -yellow shrubs at the edge of an
incredible, slowly writhing forest.

Panic threatened to seize him again.
What lurking terrors were outside?
This land of mist and deceptive, waver-
ing distances bore some resemblance to

OUTLAW QUEEN OF VENUS

the Hollywood - inspired - and -produced
adventure telies, with their papier
mache reptiles threshing through ani-
mated jungles. The only things missing
were the frowning fortresses and glitter-
ing pleasure cities which should have
dotted the landscape, and the thrill of
adventure which Griggs had jolted out
of him.

Grimly he slipped into a bullet-resist-
ant cape, took his prized possession, a
forbidden sub-machine gun, set the air
lock spinning open and put foot on Wil-
doatia with all the boldness he could
muster.

“Whang!”

A giant hand seemed to grip him by
the shoulder and spin him round. He
slipped to his knees, then sprawled face
downward, still gripping the gun in his
unparalyzed hand. That bullet had
come from the edge of the slime-coated
forest, and, but for his cape, would
have broken his shoulder. He waited
with pumping heart.

Minutes later a face peered from be-
hind one of the nearer trees.

“Rat! Tat! Tat!”

The face vanished.

Again he waited. Nothing happened
so he crawled forward. Soon he was
kneeling beside a sprawled, bloody and
almost naked — girl.

As he stared at his handiwork a white
tentacle slid out of the mud and curled
lovingly around the stranger’s ankle.
Another followed to fasten itself on her
wrist.

As the roots bit into her flesh the
“dead” girl came back to her senses and
screamed as she struggled to escape.
Although she must have seen Frank she
made no appeal for help. Instead her
pale blue eyes focused above him in a
sort of gleeful anticipation.

Sensing some approaching danger,
the latter dodged.

With a whiplike crack a branch

flashed through the air and coiled
around the place where he had been
standing,

“Damn you,” gasped the girl. “I
hoped ” She fainted.

jG^RANK ran back to the ship,
grabbed a machete and returned to
hack at those slowly-contracting roots.
They writhed under his attack, let go
their holds at last and stooped back into
the muck. Snatching the girl in his
arms — she was light as a feather — he
carried her to the ship. Starting to take
her inside, he remembered her unpro-
voked attack, went through the air lock
and came back with a first aid kit.

The stranger was only creased along
the side of the skull and revived
quickly.

“I don’t know nothin’ ” she whim-
pered as she opened those disturbing
eyes. “Won’t do no good to torture
me.”

“No one’s going to torture you.”

“It’s not — it’s not the camp again?

I couldn’t Oh please kill me, mister.

. . . Please!”

“Look,” he snapped. “You know this
uniform, don’t you?”

“Sure.” She struggled to sit up and
finally made it with his help. “It’s the
Space Patrol.”

“You know the Patrol doesn’t tor-
ture people, don’t you?”

“Yeh — but what are you doin’ way
out here? The Patrol has no authority
except in the interstellar settlement at
Venusport.” She gripped his coat lapels
in great excitement.

“Lost my bearings,” he lied. “Had to
land here until ... Oh no you don’t,
you little viper!”

The girl had whipped his automatic
out of its holster but the shot aimed at
his heart went wild when he knocked
up her arm.

“Damn it all,” she wailed. “Oh damn

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

it all, why ain’t I a man?” Flinging her-
self on the yellow grass, she beat it with
her fists in an ecstasy of hysteria until
a few well-placed smacks brought her
back to sniffling sanity.

“Listen, you young hellcat!” He
shook her till her teeth rattled, then
stopped shame-facedly as he saw how
weak she was. “We can’t go on like
this. Are you going to behave your-
self?”

“Why should I?” She grinned at him
impishly through her tears. “You’ve got
a spaceship and I need it. Only way to
keep me from getting it is to shoot me
between the eyes.”

“Why — why that’s what Tom Griggs
told me.”

“Tom Griggs! ... You said Tom
Griggs?” She made a grab for him
again but he fended her off.

“Yes, I said Tom Griggs. Know
him?”

“Uh huh.” She looked down at her
dirty toes and wriggled them thought-
fully. “Tell you what,” she began at
last, still keeping her eyes averted. “I —
I’ve got to go some place in a hurry. If
you’ll take me, I won’t steal your lousy
ship till tomorrow.”

Frank started to laugh, but broke off
as he saw her fists clench.

“It’s a bargain,” he choked at last.
“Let’s shake on it.”

“Not on your life!” She put both
grimy hands behind her. “You’re not
going to get me to break any laws.”

“How about something to eat, then?”

“Eat? You mean you’ll actually give
me some of your grub? I ain’t got no
money.”

“Of course I’ll give it to you. You
look starved.”

“Stranger.” Her voice was solemn.
“You’re not long for this world.”

CHE wolfed down the canned rations
he set out until he thought she

would burst. When every plate was
clean she leaned back against the ship,
patted her round tummy approvingly
and lighted one of his cigarettes.

“I ate too much,” she sighed.

“Must have been some time since you
had a square meal.”

“Been some time since I met a
damned fool,” she grinned.

“What is this? Back on Earth it’s — ”
“Share and share alike,” she mim-
icked. “Well, in Wildoatia it’s different,
Buddy. The planet was colonized by
folks who didn’t like each other. Here
you hang on to what you’ve got, which
hasn’t been much of late, and swipe
whatever you can. Otherwise you get
rubbed out, see? Why, that gun I pot-
shoted you with ... I got it by
climbing a tree and dropping a rock
on a Big Shot’s head.”

“You said you had to get some place
in a rush,” he changed the unpleasant
subject. “What’s up your sleeves?”
“Ain’t got a sleeve,” she grimaced,
“or a shirt either, your eyes keep on
reminding me.”

“Sorry,” he flushed. “Here. Take
mine.”

“Thanks, Sir Galahad.” She pulled
the proffered garment over her head and
tucked the tails into what remained
of her shorts. “If you weren’t a sap
who believes in honesty and that sort of
bunk I wouldn’t tell you what I’m
gonna, even if you concentrated me.
But here it is: I’ve got a straight tip
there’s been a U-235 strike up at Dead
Man’s Delta — the first one in three
years — I wanna stake a claim.”

“But-

“Oh, I know what you’re thinkin’ —
the Big Shots get the best claims. But
they’re too proud to soil their lily white
hands on anything but a bonanza so
somebody with a ship, supplies and
guns might clean up and get away.”
“See here, though. If I don’t trust

OUTLAW QUEEN OF VENUS

you and you think I’ll double cross you,
how can we work together?”

“Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that.
In fact,” she admitted with a disarming
wink, “I guess I was still figuring on
bumping you off tomorrow.”

“But if a uranium rush is anything
like it’s pictured in the telies, two peo-
ple working together would have a
much better chance of cashing in.” He
found himself dropping into her pseudo-
western-gangster patois.

“Yes, but the Big Shots wouldn’t
stand for it. If they catch anybody
teaming up they blast ’em. Concen-
trating’s too good for ’em, they say.”
“We could pretend to be enemies.”
“Sure. And you, you big dope, would
live up to your bargain while I’d be a
darned fool if I didn’t shoot you in the
back soon as we’d made a pile.” Un-
expectedly her face puckered up and
she started to cry. Forgetting that she
had tricked him before, Frank slipped
one arm around her shaking shoulders.
She huddled against him and wailed.

“ jP\ON’T men and women ever team
up in this god-forsaken world?”

he tried again. “After all ”

“Oh, the Big Shots have their
women,” she snarled in sudden fury.
“I mean, we’re their women, for a night
or a week or a month till they get tired
of us. But if we find somebody — some-
body like you . . .” and she wailed
again, “why the cop says ‘Break it up’
and you gotta. . .

“Why?”

“Why!” She recoiled in amazement.
“Because it’s the law, like no hand-
shakes and no kisses and no partner-
ships.”

“But doesn’t anyone ever break the
law?”

“A few do . . . once.”

“I see.” His flesh was crawling.
Then: “Who are these Big Shots?”

“Oh, descendants of the gangsters,
fascists, fifth columnists and, well, Big
Shots, who were expelled from Earth
after the Last War. I’ve heard a lot
of people wanted to kill ’em outright
but others argued that, like buzzards
and scamours and jitbugs, they must
have some use or they wouldn’t have
been created, so they sent them here to
work out their salvation or kill each
other off.”

“So you have to be born a Big Shot?”
“Oh no. That’s why the incors keep
coming. You just get a million dollars,
some way and you’re in, with all rights
and privileges.” She brightened up
amazingly and rubbed her eyes dry
with her knuckles. “You see, that’s
why I want to get to Dead Man’s
Delta. I’ve already swiped a hun-
dred thousand bucks and I figured that
with what I might make out of this
strike and your ship. ... Oh! I
shouldn’t have said. that! She clapped
both hands over her mouth.

“I’ll say you shouldn’t.” He rose
and turned toward the air lock. “So
long, kid rattlesnake.”

“Wait!” she gulped. “Please. I...”
“You what?” He wavered.

“I’ll promise to be bad. I mean I
won’t ever touch your old ship if you’ll
take me to the Delta and I’ll be your
partner even if it does mean I’ll go
to hell when I die.”

For a moment he struggled to un-
derstand her weird reversal of right
and wrong, then shook his head.

“Nope. I’d never be sure you
weren’t going to double cross me, or
that you wouldn’t, well, kind of forget.”
She looked at him, perplexed by a
problem which evidently never before
had confronted her.

“Well,” she said at last, “if I told
you where I’ve got my hundred thou-
sand cached. . . .”

“That would just encourage you to

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

knife me before I might double cross
you.”

“Whew!” She ran slim fingers
through her mop of tawny curls.
“Can’t you suggest anything?”

“Do you know Sadie Thompson at
Venusport?” he snapped.

The girl turned white and seemed
about to faint again.

“Y-yes,” she breathed at last.

“If you’ll post that hundred thou-
sand as bond with her, or something.

“If you ... if you’re . . .” She
stopped and looked at the twisting
forest as though fearful it might hear,
then whispered, “If you know Tom
Griggs and Sadie Thompson you don’t
need any bond. They’d tear me to
pieces if I even laid a finger on you.”

“They? You mean the Big Shots?”

“You know I don’t mean the Big
Shots,” she giggled, jumping to her
feet. “Come on if you’re coming.
We’re out to beat the mob to Dead
Man’s Delta.”

Marveling, but somehow trusting
her implicity now, Frank followed her
toward the lock.

THE ship took the air, climbed
and blasted southward just within
the fringes of the lowest cloud layer,
the waif presented her plan of cam-
paign.

“Will this thing float?” was her first
question.

“Sure.”

“Then we’ll blast a hole in the swamp
with the forward rockets and hide the
ship there. Water and muck will pour
back and cover everything but the top
hatch so the Big Shot’ll never find
her. Then we’ll wait for a rift in the
clouds and . . .”

“But rifts are mighty few, aren’t
they?” Frank objected. “We may
have to wait for weeks. Why?”

“You’ll see, greenhorn,” she grinned
at him as she tucked some more of his
big shirt under her belt. “Even if we
wait we’ll be way ahead of the mob.
Nobody but Big Shots are allowed to
use planes. The prospectors are hoof-
ing it like I was.”

Three hours later they soared above
the steaming delta from which the
great Squar River plunged over a thou-
sand foot precipice into the foaming
Yellow Sea. Under other circumstances
Frank would have been awestruck by
the spectacle which dwarfed Niagara to
toylike proportions, but now he had
become infected with the girl’s evident
terror and spent most of his time watch-
ing for BS planes.

“How come it’s called Dead Man’s
Delta?” he found leisure to inquire.

For answer she pointed to a tre-
mendous landslide which at some re-
cent date had forced the river to change
its course about ten miles above its
mouth.

“Used to be a big air terminal for the
north-south route under there,” she
explained. “Lots of dead men . . . and
women too, when the slide was over.
Now the crazy fools have built the new
diggin’s practically in the old channel
because it’s so well drained. See it?”
Frank looked down as she pointed
and saw the settlement, a ragged scar
on a valley from which the jungle
shrank away as if fearing infection.

At that moment a blinding rain
squall swept without warning over the
countryside and blotted out all but its
most striking outlines.

“Now!” cried the girl. “Drop
straight and quick into that marsh be-
tween the river and the cliffs just above
the village. Don’t blast till you’re too
low to be seen. The rockets must
sound like thunder.”

“We’ll probably break our necks,”
her companion muttered, but did as he

OUTLAW QUEEN OF VENUS

was told. The ship whooshed down-
ward through the rubbery atmosphere,
brought up short with a spine-shatter-
ing jerk as he gunned the forward
rockets full blast for the fraction of a
second, then squished into the deep
muck.

"]Sj[ow what?” Frank rubbed an el-
bow which he had cracked
against the control panel. “Do we hi-
bernate?”

“No, no.” She was dancing with ex-
citement. “Breaks in the clouds often
follow heavy downpours. Let’s get our
gear together near the hatch and be
ready to make a break for it.”

“What gear?” He looked about
helplessly.

“Your Tommy gun and my rifle, silly.
Canned food. Blankets. Machetes.
We may not be able to get back, you
see, and we’ll have to pay through the
nose for anything we don’t bring with
us. Hurry. And get into some other
clothes. That uniform will get you shot
on sight out here.”

They made up two heavy packs and
leaned them against the short ladder
which led to the hatch. Then Frank
climbed up, unscrewed the cover and
pushed it upward.

Wham! A yellow tentacle struck the
opening a resounding blow, curled like
a giant finger and started questing
down the ladder. The ship rocked in
its bed of ooze and a little water
slopped over the edge of the hatch.

“Quick! Cut it off before it sinks us,”
screamed the girl.

Grabbing machetes, they leaped for-
ward and hacked at the living cable
until it parted. The stump snapped
back while the severed portion writhed
like a dying snake on the control room
floor, emitting a nauseous ichor and still
trying to strike at them.

“That was close,” she panted, “I

was sure all the nearest ones would
be scorched by our rocket blast. We’re
safe now, I think.”

“Hadn’t I better close the hatch?
There may be others.”

“They only strike at moving objects.
Besides, with the cover closed we
mightn’t be able to see the sun in
time.”

Almost as she finished speaking the
hatch seemed to turn itself into the
door of a blast furnace. Blinding light
and a wave of withering heat smote
them like physical blows.

“The sun’s out,” cried the girl. “Up
with you. If there’s enough clear sky
we’ll make a break for it.”

They tumbled up the ladder . . .and
beheld a scene of madness.

All about them the saffron jungle was
thrashing and squirming like some pro-
tean animal in its death agony.
Branches whirled up like mighty arms
and, descending, beat the mud into
froth. Here and there hairy vines
strove with each other, forming epic
statuesque groups, remindful of Lao-
coon. Only where the rocket blast
had seared a hole in the matted
vegetation was there a semblance of
quiet, although deadly reptiles and
other creatures too hideous to look
upon were twisting and striking at
each other in the muck surrounding
the ship.

“My God,” whispered Frank, feeling
the hair on his head stir. “Looks like
a scene from Revelations . . . Seven
heads, ten horns and all the rest of it.
What’s going on?”

“It’s the ultra violet rays in the sun-
shine. Venusian plant-animals ... or
animal-plants, whichever way you pre-
fer to look at it . . . spend 99 per cent
of their lives in deep shadow. So they
go positively wild when over-stimulated
during periods of clear skies. By the
way,” she squinted at a long, jagged

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

tear in the miles-high mass of clouds
through which a monstrous sun glared
at them, “you’d better wear your
heaviest helmet and your darkest
glasses when we make our dash. This
light will skin you in five minutes if
you don’t.”

“TV/TAKE our dash?” he marveled.
iVA “Through that hell?”

“Sure.” Nonchalantly she slid down
the ladder and started adjusting her
pack. “They can’t take it. They’ll all
be dead drunk before you can shake a
lamb’s tail.”

“But how . . .?” He hooked his
arms through the loops of his own fifty-
pound load.

“You’ll see.” She was taking delight
in his bewilderment. Then her too-
thin, pixie face became dead serious.
“When we get ashore, remember we
mustn’t be seen together. That would
give the game away and we’d be rubbed
out with no questions asked. So you
take one path and I’ll take the high-
road. After that, don’t be surprised
at anything that happens.”

“But what about the claim,” he pro-
tested. “How do I go about filing it . . .
and how do you mine U-235 any-
way?”

“Well, you are a tenderfoot,” she
jeered. “As for the claim, you just
drive your stakes where the Big Shots
let you and then shoot anybody . . .
and I mean anybody . . . who tries to
set foot on your land. And don’t bite
off a bigger claim than you can defend
night and day. As for mining the ore.
I thought you were an engineer.”

“I am, but on Earth we never get
235 without using a cyclotron or kly-
stron on 238.5.” He was feeling foolish
at the knowledge displayed by this
half-clad, half-starved girl.

“That’s where the Big Shots struck
it rich. After they had looted and then

exterminated the unlucky natives, they
discovered that Venus had quite a bit of
pure isotope 235. They use it as valuta
in their interstellar trade. Otherwise
the poor goofs would starve, I do be-
lieve.”

“And the earth would have to manu-
facture its own rocket fuel at ten times
the present cost.”

“Yeh. Might be a good thing, too.”
“You said Venus had quite a bit of
235. Does that mean it’s used up?”
“Uh huh. Dead Man’s Delta is the
first big strike in years. If it doesn’t
pan out, the Big Shots may have to go
to work and really develop this planet
if they can. They’re down to their last
space yachts right now.” She glanced
at him as though about to say some-
thing more, then quickly changed the
subject. “The ore here looks just about
the same as ordinary pitchblends and
carnotite . . . dark blue with a pitchy
feel in igneous rocks or canary yellow
specks found in sandstone.”

“How did you find out about the
strike?”

“None of your business.”

“Excuse me. How about refining the
ore?”

“Certainly. You can sell your stuff
to the Big Shots’ reduction plant or
you can fine it yourself and sell them
the pure metal. Either way, you’ll get
gyped unless you’re robbed outright.
The reduction process is fairly simple.
You use aqua regia, sodium carbonate
and sodium hydroxide. Main thing to
remember is to keep pure 235 away
from water or moisture of any kind if
you want to stay in one piece. As you
ought to know, water acts on it like
a detonator on a hand grenade. Now
come on. Things should have quieted
down upstairs.”

r J' v HE silence of death surrounded
them when they scrambled up the

OUTLAW QUEEN OF VENUS

ladder. The palmlike fronds and
massive vines had given over their
gymnastics and now lay supine across
the mud which already had begun to
steam in the goshawful heat.

“Everything looks cooked ... or
frostbitten,” Frank marveled.

“Don’t stand there gawking. This
sunshine won’t last. Get going.”

“But how? I’m no mud puppy.”

“That branch . . . the one we chopped
in two. See? It’s lying across the
mud with the end almost touching the
ship. Jump for it.”

“And if I miss?”

“Nothing will bite you. The snakes
and scamours are burrowing deep in
the mud to escape the sunshine.”

Taking a deep breath which he hoped
would not be his last, Frank obeyed.
Of course his feet slipped on the slimy
bark and he jackknifed into the tepid
ooze.

“See if you can do better, you imp
of Satan,” he snarled at the laughing
girl as he managed to gain a kneeling
position on the faintly writhing branch.

To his astonishment she vaulted over
his head, landed on her feet, balanced
like a ropewalker despite her pack and
started toward “shore” as confidently
as though she had been walking a
railroad rail. Grimly he edged after
her.

“You’ll never make it that way,”
frowned his guide as she mounted the
bunch of gelatinous, mouldy leaves into
which the base of their branch de-
scended. “The clouds will be back in
fifteen minutes and we’ve got an eighth
of a mile to go. On your feet, green-
horn, and run, if you know what’s good
for you.”

Wiping the mud off his face, Frank
stood erect and did his best. It
wouldn’t have been so bad if the
branches and vines, many of them a
foot thick, had lain quiet. But they

persisted in twitching and flinching in
their coma. And frequently they
humped themselves up vaguely and
dumped him back in the swamp.

Nevertheless he made fair progress,
although the heat and stench of de-
cayed vegetation was now becoming
unbearable. Also he could feel the ul-
traviolet rays beating through his coat,
parboiling him and at the same time
making him as dizzy as one too many
highballs.

He was within sight of higher ground
when the sun switched off like an
electric bulb, leaving his contracted
pupils almost blinded. A stinging pre-
monition of danger sent him racing
along that prostrate fronds like a struc-
tural steel worker on a skyscraper
skeleton. And, as his sight became
normal again, he saw there was reason
for his fear. In the shadowy dark-
ness the jungle was coming quickly
back to ferocious life.

“Step on it, greenhorn!” he heard
the girl screaming far ahead. At the
same moment the gnarled vine which
he had been using as a bridge, jerked
angrily to one side and he plunged once
more into the slime. But now, he
found, it was only about a foot deep,
so he sloshed ahead rather than
searching for firmer footing.

The jungle was groaning and mur-
muring like some mammoth, many-
lunged animal. Sucking sounds, loud
reports and ghostly creakings set his
teeth on edge and his hair on end.

“Hurry! Hurry!” He could see the
girl jumping up and down in a frenzy
of excitement at the edge of the jungle.
“It’s waking up. Step on it.” She was
actually wringing her hands.

Frank called upon his aching muscles
for the final dash. He dodged between
the dripping frdnds which were rising
like blades of grass which have been
stepped on, hacked wildly at clawing

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

things which rose to bar his path,
plunged like a halfback through the
last fringe of vegetation . . . and crashed
forward on his face as a vice-like grip
fastened itself on his ankle!

jP^ESPERATELY he struggled to re-
trieve his machete, which had
flown from his hand. The rubbery
thing which had him let him crawl
forward a pace or two. Then it con-
tracted and began dragging him back
into the ooze. At the same time a
stinging sensation warned him that the
tentacle was sucking blood through his
skin.

He became aware of the girl, stand-
ing stock still now, not more than ten
feet aw r ay, but continuing to wring
her hands.

“Kick me the machete,” he panted.
“I can cut myself free in no time.”

She did not answer nor move, but
stared over and beyond him along the
shore.

“What’s the matter with you kid?”
he croaked as once more a deadly pre-
monition chilled his spine. “We’re part-
ners, you know.”

Still no answer. But, as he was
inched slowly backward, she advanced
a step as though pulled by strings.

The pain in his legs . . . good God,
both his legs now . . . was becoming
unbearable. He snatched at a nearby
bush to stay his inexorable progress
only to feel the thing slick through
his grasp like a wet glove as it re-
treated uderground.

“Help me,” he pleaded.

“I can’t.” The girl’s voice was firm
and clear. “The law says . . . never
. . . help . . . people in distress . . .
under pain of . . . death.”

“To hell with such a There

was a sharp tug. He slipped a foot
deeper into the jungle. There was
mud in his mouth. He strained his

neck upward till it cracked and his
head was above water. “Sadie,” he
coughed. “Sadie . . . Thompson.”

J^RANK recovered consciousness
with a start. By all rights he should
be drowned, yet the sound of strange
voices was in his ears. Through
slitted lids he looked up at two men
who were laughing harshly as they
stared' at him in his muddy bed at the
edge of the swamp.

’’Rolled him!” chortled the square,
black-haired gent in flaming yellow
shirt and Sam Brown belt. “You
say it was just a young — ?”

“Sure. Not over seventeen,” giggled
the little moon-faced man in khaki.
“You shoulda saw it, Lou.”

“Shoulda seen it, dope! Mind your
gram!”

“Huh? Yeh . You shoulda seen it.
I was just cornin’ ’round that last clump
o’ trees an’ I saw . . . seen ... the
kid choppin’ this stiff’s legs free.
‘Mike,’ I says, ‘here’s a crime bein’
committed, sure as you’re a Big Shot.
But before I could draw a bead on
him, th’ kid dragged thisun outta th’
muck, yanked off his pack, grabbed
his gun and hightailed it into the
brush, draggin’ th’ stuff after him
’cause he wasn’t strong enough to carry
it all.”

“Yeh?” Yellow Shirt bellowed with
laughter, “Think you’d rec?”

“Sure.” (Mike apparently was quite
accustomed to his friend’s habit of
amputating the ends of sentences.)
“He was half-starved. Had red hair.
I can find him in no time at the Dig-
gin’s.”

“Think we ought to search the bod?”
“Nah. Th’ kid cleaned him right
down to th’ hide. Let th’ scamours
have Mm.”

“Oke, then. Let’s trav.”

Obediently .the little man followed

OUTLAW QUEEN OF VENUS

the big one out of Frank’s field of
vision.

When the sound of their footsteps
had died away the “dead” man sat up
groggily and studied the situation. So
the girl ... he had never asked her
name . . . had double crossed him in
spite of her promises. He should have
expected it. A half wild thing, brought
up to think that theft, murder and the
like were virtues, would be unlikely to
change its moral code in a few hours.

She undoubtedly had rifled his
pockets too. He felt in one of them
and was startled to find his cigarette
case. He succeeded in lighting a
damp cylinder, then continued his
inventory. A second later he yelped
with relief as he discovered Tom
Grigg’s money belt still firmly hugging
his middle. Five thousand gold dol-
lars, worn smooth with age though they
were, would buy him a new outfit —
keep him a little longer from the Con-
centration Camp which yawned for him.

Glumly he staggered to his feet and
set off through the gloom, following the
footprints which the girl had left on the
grey sand. As he abandoned the rush-
grown strip which surrounded the
swamp and started into the sparsely-
wooded upland in the direction where
he thought the Diggin’s must lie, a
flicker of white attracted his attention.
Against a bush, with a strip of his
borrowed shirt around the muzzle,
leaned his Tommy gun. Beside it was
the bandoleer of shells.

An unreasoning wave of hope . . . and
perhaps something more . . . swept over
the greenhorn.

“Hey, kid,” he shouted.

Not even a sodden echo answered.

For some time he cast back and
forth along the dune, searching for his
pack without success. Finally he
shrugged and walked on, mouth cor-
ners turned down bitterly. Obviously

the girl had left his gun only because
it was too heavy to carry.

'"jpHE eternal semi-twilight was deep-
ening into wet black velvet when
Frank finally reached the Diggin’s. At-
tracted by a patch of misty light and
then by snatches of phonograph music,
he squished through the ankle-deep
gumbo of a deserted Main Street until
an extra-loud burst of noise caused him
to turn in at what was plainly the
town’s best saloon.

The double screen doors, designed to
bar the planet’s bug population, opened
automatically and snapped shut behind
him like rickety jaws.

“Check your gun,” growled a cauli-
flowered individual inside. “No rods
allowed.”

Regretfully, Frank handed over his
weapon, accepted a numbered check in
return and paused to survey the layout.

It looked much like the “set” of a
Wild West telie. A mahogany bar,
backed by a blotched, fly-specked mir-
ror, ran across one side of the room.
In a corner, where the band should have
been, a juke box blared the dance tune
which had been most popular on Earth
a year before. Men, dressed in worn
overalls, lounged over the bar, watched
the few careful players at the faro and
roulette tables or made bored love to
scantily-clad and hungry-Iooking host-
esses. At tables along the walls others
were playing penny ante and pretend-
ing they liked it.

Yet this was no telie scene. Besides
the shabbiness and lack of verve there
was another difference, something
subtle which Frank strove to define as
he leaned against the door frame.

“Looking for someone, handsome, or
will I do?” crooned a blonde in the bar-
est excuse for a scarlet sarong.

“You’ll do,” he answered warily.
“How about a drink?”

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“Sure.” She positively glowed.
“Scotch for mine.”

“Scotch? But . . .”

“I know it’s two bucks a shot.” The
smile faded. “But you’re no piker are
you, honey? The> local stuff is lousy.”
“You have Scotch. I’ll take the lo-
cal stuff. Can’t cut into my grub-
stake,” said Frank to make conversa-
tion, then checked himself as he realized
he had probably made too much.

“Oh, in that case, honey,” beamed
the girl ... he noticed there was a
dark streak along the part in her hair
. . . “I’ll string along too. (Waiter!
Two Gurga Collins.) I always try to
give you miners a break even if it is
against the law.”

The liquor wasn’t bad, although it
tasted faintly of swamp water. And
it quickly pervaded his empty stomach
with a rosy glow. As they sipped it, the
hostess rubbed her naked shoulder
against his invitingly, but seemed at a
loss for conversation. Her silence re-
minded him that the whole crowd was
strangely quiet. There was no hum of
banter or argument . . . only calls for
drinks and cards and the intermittent
humming click of roulette wheels.

“Things seem kind of dead around
here,” he ventured.

“They always do.” Shrug. “It’s the
hard times . . . and the mikes.”
“Mikes?”

“Yeh. Microphones. Under each
table.” Her voice dropped. “They put
’em in at every new diggin’s to size up
the mob. Here. I’ll show you.!’ Her
limp fingers sought his and guided them
to a perforated lump embedded in the
wood. “Get the idea?”

“Couldn’t we take a walk?” Frank
wanted to follow his lead.

“The jitbugs would eat us alive at
this hour. Wait, though. How about
coming to my room? I know how to
disconnect the mike there so we can

talk.” She saw him hesitate and es-
sayed a blush. “Of course, if you
don’t want . . .”

“Why not?” Frank downed the rest
of his drink hurriedly. “Lead the way,
Miss . . .”

“Smith,” she supplied as she rose
sinuously. “Joan Smith. (Waiter!
Send a pitcher of the same up to my
room.) Come along, honey.”

THEY turned toward the narrow
stairway, the screen doors slapped
open and shut to reveal a youth in mos-
quito hat, khaki shirt and trousers sev-
eral sizes too large, who stood just in-
side the entrance, cradling a rifle in
the crook of one arm.

“Check your rod, pard,” croaked the
cloakroom attendant. “Check your

“Check nothing!” snarled the new-
comer. “That mug by the stairs is
making passes at my dame! ” The rifle
exploded.

Frank heard the bullet zip past his
ear to smash into the maze of fluores-
cent lights which hung over the bar.

In the following semi-darkness the
dazed tenderfoot had a kaledioscopic
impression of the blonde’s clinging
arms, the spatter of glass fragments,
the barkeep yelling “Turn out the
guard!” into a microphone, the thump
of overturned tables as the guests came
to life and flung themselves on the
floor, and the screams of hostesses.

The gun spoke again and again.
Each time another bank of lights
blinked out. Then, as the room went
completely dark, the screens gnashed
their teeth again above the. bedlam.

Jerking loose from the covering
shadow beside him, Frank sprang for
the door. Nobody was going to take
potshots at him like that! He made a
grab for his gun as he passed the rack,
managed to yank it free and went

OUTLAW QUEEN OF VENUS

through the doors before they could
open.

“Hey, you!” he yelled. “Stop and
fight like a man!”

He had to stop, himself, at that point
to disentangle the wire mesh he had
ripped away in his plunge. Instantly
his head was surrounded by a cloud of
ravening insects, almost as big as bats
and reminiscent of those flitting mon-
sters once drawn by Dr. Seuss.

Half-blinded, he flailed about in
agony until a familiar voice said:

“Here. Smear some of this goo on.
It’ll keep them away till we reach
cover.”

“You!” he gasped, recognizing his
fiendish little friend at last, despite
her disguise in his spare clothing.

“Who else,” she grunted, hitching up
her baggy pants.

“But why’d you shoot at me?” He
smeared vigorougsly.

“To keep you from making a damn
fool of yourself.” She grabbed his arm
and dragged him along the mirey street
as they heard the rapid tramp of a
guard detail approaching at the double.
“That dame’s one of The Shirt’s best
pumpers. Recognized her soon as I
went in.”

“Pumpers? The Shirts?”

“Yeh. The boss’s spies to you, green-
horn. She’d have pumped you dry in
half an hour, slipped you a Mickey
Finn and got a cut on your money belt
after you’d been concentrated.”

“I’m not that green!”

“Maybe not.” Her words carried no
conviction.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To a hangout across the tracks.
We gotta hurry. They’ll be turning the
whole town out after us.”

''jpHEY had reached dryer ground by
this time and the girl was setting
a pace which he found hard to match.

“Halt!” shouted a voice behind
them.

They sprinted frantically, dodging to
escape the bullets which felt for them
in the darkness and the eternal drizzle.
Finally the girl jerked Frank into a
narrow, fetid alley. They crept along
this for ten minutes or so, slipping and
sliding on garbage and probable dead
cats until another challenge rang out.

“Who goes?”

“Friends of Sadie’s,” panted the girl.
“Emergency!”

“Pass.”

A dim yellow oblong opened before
them and they burst into the empty of-
fice of some warehouse.

“What’s up?” asked the disembodied
voice.

“Rescued this greenhorn from a
pumper. The Shirt’s on our tail.”

“Your number?”

“Three-oh-four ST.”

A panel slid aside in what seemed to
be a solid brick wall.

“Through there,” the voice directed.
“Bear to your left at every door.
They’re all unlocked. Good luck.”

“Say, what’s all this?” Frank found
breath to ask when, half an hour later,
they stood somewhere on the outskirts
of the Diggin’s, rubbing their shins,
which had come in contact with various
packing cases during their flight.

“Several things.” He could feel her
grin. “First, as long as I can maintain
this disguise, we’ll be known as deadly
enemies by the Big Shots.”

“But won’t they pick us up tomor-
row?”

“Nope. That would be what they
call double jeopardy. If you get away
in Wildoatia after committing a crime,
you can’t be picked up later. That
goes even for murder. Of course trea-
son’s quite a different matter.

“I see,” said Frank, who didn’t. “Go
on.”

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“Well, my second point is that any
friend of Sadie Thompson is a friend
of Them, so — ”

“Them is spelled with a big ‘T’, isn’t
it?” he hazarded.

“I don’t go much on spelling and such
things. Guess so.” She tugged at this
arm. “Come on, pard. We can’t stand
here gassing. I know a shack where
we can hole in for the night.”

“Say, what’s your name . . . pard?”
He used the new term with difficulty.
“I’ve always forgot to ask you before.”

“Joan — Joan Smith.”

“Oh come now.” He stopped thread-
ing his way among the chunks of dimly
phosphorescent rocks which littered
their path. “That’s was the pumpers’
name.”

“It was, huh? Want to make some-
thing out of it?” Her tone was sud-
denly grim.

“No, but . . .”

“But in Wildoatia, folks don’t ask
too many personal questions.” She
softened and slipped a thin arm through
his. “Come on, my wide-eyed boy.
We’ve got to get some sleep, so we can
jump good claims in the morning.”

it turned out, they didn’t have to
jump their claims. When they
went out to the actual diggings at dawn
they found that “Discovery” and ten
plots above and below it were’ being
guarded with rifles by lynx-eyed, gaunt
and ragged claimants. The real flood
of prospectors had not yet arrived, how-
ever, so they were able to stake adjoin-
ing claims on a granite outcropping
from the low-lying cliffs. The veins
looked skimpy to Frank’s unpracticed
eye but Joan swore — and that’s no fig-
ure of speech — that they were better
than anything in sight.

“Before I stopped your carousing
last night I put in an order for drills

and other equipment” she informed her
partner. “They’ll be delivered shortly,
under separate names, of course. Then
about noon we should receive a visit
from The Shirt and his shadow. Don’t
be surprised if I heave a rock at you
when they show up. And whatever they
do, don’t put up an argument. You
can’t win.”

“But—”

“They’ll probably requisition your
tommy gun. It’s a new model and they
can’t afford to buy them these days.
If they take it, however, you’re legally
entitled to one of their’s in exchange.
Better bury your money belt, but keep
a few hundred bucks in your jeans.
They’ll beat you half to death if they
don’t find any cash . . . Wait a min-
ute, though.” She bit her thumb though-
fully. “If they give you a good licking
they may be too tired to bother me. . . .
Not that I couldn’t take it, but it would
be a lot . . . pleasanter if they didn’t
discover I’m a girl.”

“I’ll hide all the money,” he said
grimly.

“Thanks’ pard. Don’t think it’s be-
cause I’m scared of getting hurt. Why,
once in camp they broke my arm, but
I wouldn’t ”

“Sun’s coming up,” he interrupted to
avoid more horrors. “We’d better get
to work before someone sees us talking
together.” Resolutely turning his back
on her, he walked away and started in-
vestigating the seam of ore in the cen-
ter of his claim.

A tractor from the village arrived an
hour or so later and he paid a goodly
portion of his grubstake for dynamite,
cheap drills and other shoddy neces-
sities. Starting work in earnest he then
built a moisture-proof shelter for ex-
tracted ore completely surrounding the
vein and, inside it in the sticky heat, be-
gan banging away.

The smash of a rock against the hut,

OUTLAW QUEEN OF VENUS

followed by a stream of billingsgate
from the other side of the ' gulch,
brought him outside.

“You filthy blankety-blank and so-
and-so,” the young harridan on the nest
claim was screaming. “Stop trying to
undercut my seam or I’ll fill you full of
lead.” She was hopping with fury.

“Go bite a scamour, you sorrel-
topped sliver,” he yelled back. “Your
seam hasn’t got a seam.”

“What’s going?” rasped a harsh
voice at his elbow. “Don’t you incors
do anything but squab?” It was the
square man in the yellow shirt who
had found him at the edge of the jungle.

“T’M SORRY, sir.” Frank was on his
best behavior. “That squirt on the
next claim spends his time thinking up
new ways to annoy me. If I didn’t
know you needed ore so badly, I’d drill
him.”

“What you mean, we need?” The
Shirt took his remark as a personal in-
sult.

“Why, uh,” Frank fumbled. “I just
thought. . . .”

“Incors don’t. . . . Paid your summer
relief yet?” For once the Big Shot
finished a sentence.

“Summer relief?”

“Yeh. Two hundred fifty bucks.
Hand it ove!”

“But I haven’t got that much. Spent
almost all my grubstake for equipment
this morning.”

“Liar!” A hamlike first connected
with his jaw. Frank flew through the
air, hit the side of the hut with sicken-
ing force and collapsed on a heap of
rock. His hand started for his holster,
then relaxed. For Joan’s sake he’d have
to take his beating.

“All right now, deliv!” snarled his
tormentor.

“I told you,” the other blurted
through bleeding lips. “I—”

The Shirt jerked him to his feet,
back him against the hut and ham-
mered him unmercifully until his
senses reeled and he crumpled to the
ground again, half conscious.

“Say, Lou,” giggled a second well-
remembered voice. “You sure can cut
’em to ribbons when you want to. Ain’t
you gonna kick him?”

The Shirt took the hint and Frank
felt a rib crack.

“Say, Lou.” The giggle seemed to
come from miles away now. “Don’t he
look kinda familiar layin’ there?”

“Mike, how many times have I got
to? It’s ‘lying’, not flayin’.”

“Sorry, boss.” Mike, his feelings
hurt, slouched away to explore the hut.
But almost immediately he sang out
cheerfully. “Say, Lou. Come lookit
this tommy gun. It’s a lulu.”

Frank wriggled over until his ear was
against the wall and listened to them
“inspecting” his effects and picking the
things which pleased them. Soon both
reappeared with sizeable bundles in
their arms.

“You’ve got to leave me a gun of
some kind,” their victim managed to
gasp.

He got another kick for his pains, to-
gether with a muttered order which
caused Mike to lean his own repeater
against the door.

“Gonna take the red-head over there
next?” the little fellow then hinted sa-
distically.

“My knuckles hurt,” Lou replied.
“How about you?”

“Uh uh!” Mike quailed. “I’d rather
watch.”

“You’re a soft. A regular cryb! ”

“I’ll inspect the redhead tomorrow.
Honest I will, boss.” The little fellow
was almost in tears. “Today we gotta
date with the governor for lunch, re-
member? We gotta get back and wash
up.”

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“Oke. Catch.” Lou tossed his bun-
dle to his helper and the two marched
briskly away.

“ J7'RANK — Did they hurt you
much?” Joan’s tearstained face
appeared around the corner of the hut
a few minutes later.

“Enough,” he groaned, managing
to sit up. “That big dockwalloper !
I’ll ...”

“No you won’t.” She was bathing
his bruised face now. “There’s lots
worse Big Shots than The Shirt. Knock
him off and we’ll get a real fanatic out
here who’ll skin us all.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry. Just get the pay dirt
out. If I know Mike he’ll forget all
about inspecting me tomorrow. There.
How do you feel now?”

“Fine,” he lied as he struggled to his
feet. “Thanks, Simon Legree. I’ll get
back to the mines.”

“Uh huh!” sniggered a voice. “Part-
ners! And a skirt too, just like I
thought.” They whirled to find Mike,
arms akimbo and short legs spread, sur-
veying them in triumph.

“Just as you thought!” Frank’s re-
tort was automatic. He could have
bitten his tongue off for it, but relaxed
as he saw The Shirt’s aide wilt before
the familiar attack.

“Yell,” he flinched. “Just as I
thought! But your play-acting on the
beach and in the saloon didn’t fool me
a minute. Will you come along quiet
or do I call the guard?”

“Aw, gee, Mr. Mike.” Joan shocked
her partner by starting to whimper like
a frightened child. “Don’t concentrate
us just when we’ve got a chance to
make a real strike.”

“Whaddayuh mean, a real strike?”
Mike giggled again. “We inspected
this outcrop. Ain’t enough ore here to
fill a tooth.”

“That’s what you think,” Joan an-
swered darkly. “What’d you say if
I told you — ” She clapped hands over
her mouth.

“Told me what?” Mike’s pig eyes
were gleaming.

“What’s The Shirt having lunch with
the governor for?” was the startling
reply.

“None of your damned business.”
Mike was no longer smiling.

“Ain’t it? Why everyone in the Dig-
gin’s knows his nibs is here to tell your
boss that production of TJ-235 must be
stepped up or there’ll be a purge.”

“Gee!” Mike was flabbergasted
now.

“Yeh.” Joan strode toward him bel-
ligerently. “The new strike’s a flop,
aint it? And things are getting tough-
er and tougher at Venusport, ain’t they?
And even the incors are grumbling and
starting to organize, so that the camps
are full up and overflowing. And — ”

“Stop it, you hell cat!” yelled Mike.
“It’s a lie.”

Joan changed her tack again.

“Look,” she said softly. “You Big
Shots are in a jam. I suppose I should
laugh, ’cept I’ve always wanted to be
a Big Shot myself. But maybe we can
make a deal. You forget about Frank
and me breaking the law, give us a
break to make our pile and I’ll show you
where there’s enough 235 to set Venus
spinning backward. Well?”

“You’ll show me what?”

“I’ll show you — the Mother Lode.”
Jean’s voice was flat.

“The Mother Lode!” Mike roared
with laughter. “Tell me another!”

For answer, she ran across the gulch,
ducked into her hut and reappeared a
moment later carrying a little leaden
box.

“Look at these!” she cried trium-
phantly.

OUTLAW QUEEN OF VENUS

TV/TIKE’S jaw dropped and his eyes
goggled as he pawed at the glow-
ing crystals inside.

“Pure stuff,” he gabbled. “Pure iso-
tope.”

“How much are they worth?”
“Eighty grand — a hundred grand,
maybe.” He licked his lips. “Where’d
you find them?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“It’s my duty to report this to
the—”

“And it’s Frank’s duty to drill you
right through the head if you take a
step.”

“You can’t do this to me. Lou
will ...”

“Forget about Lou, you worm.” She
grabbed him by the shoulders and shook
him. “With the stuff I’m going to show
you, you’ll be boss of all Wildoatia.”
“Me? Boss?-” Mike shuddered. “Aw,
no, I — ” His narrow shoulders straight-
ened. “Say, maybe you’re right.” He
tried to glare. “Well, where is it?”
“Not so fast. We want safe con-
ducts and a big enough cut to make us
Big Shots too.”

“You do, huh? There’s ways of
making you talk.”

“Sure! You lay a finger on either
of us and I’ll talk so loud the whole
Diggin’s will hear. Then where’ll you
be?”

“You got me, pard,” Mike grinned
uneasily after a long time out for
thought. “What you want me to do?”
“Go back to town. Don’t say a word
about this to The Shirt or the governor.
Just say you inspected me and found
everything o.k. Then tonight you get
safe conducts for us and draw up an
agreement on our cut. Come back
here around noon tomorrow, making
sure you’re not followed, and I’ll show
you where the Mother Lode is.”

“Then this ain’t it?”

“Of course not. This is a blind. The

lode’s — well, I’ll show you where it is
when I get those papers, not before.
Now beat it, big boy.” She gave him
one of her most disarming smiles. “I
think we’ll get along all right.”

“You let him go!” marveled Frank
as the little man hurried out of earshot.
“How do you know — ?”

“I know a lot of things,” his part-
ner snapped. “I know, for instance,
that The Shirt will see right through
Mike. When he comes back here to-
morrow he’ll be shadowed by forty
pumpers.”

“Then—?”

“Then somebody not far from here
is going to have a heart-to-heart talk
with the governor tonight.”

“Say, am I going crazy?”
“Everybody’s crazy in Wildoatia.

Why not you ? Here take a

radiogram.” She hugged herself with
delight at his bewilderment. “ ‘Chancel-
lor Ebert, Venusport: Mother Lode lo-
cated at Dead Man’s Delta. Local
officials planning doublecross you and
jump same around noon. To locate
lode, trail party of three leaving Dig-
gin’s that hour. (SIGNED) A friend.’
How’s that? Your job’s to have it
sent early tomorrow. The grapevine
will have it all over the place in an
hour.”

“I begin to see what you’re up to,”
Frank muttered, “but what happens to
us when they all pile in here and dis-
cover there isn’t any Mother Lode?”
“My friend — ” She hitched up her
pants, folded her arms with the aplomb
of a Napoleon and let him have it. “I
wasn’t kidding. The Mother Lode is
right up in these hills, not five miles
from where you’re standing. You saw
the crystals, didn’t you?”

“T>UT you didn’t mine them. You
didn’t have time.” He held his
aching head in his hands. “I don’t get

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

it. If you’ve been here before and
mined the Lode, why in heaven’s name
did you tell the Big Shots about it?”

“Little boy,” she crooned. “Since
you’re so smart, tell me how long we
could work such a bonanza without be-
ing spotted and highjacked or mur-
dered. If, by some miracle, we weren’t
caught at the start, how could we avoid
arousing suspicion when we tried to buy
enough chemicals and equipment to re-
fine that much metal. And if — ”

“You win,” he groaned. “Although
I’d let the stuff stay in the ground for-
ever before I’d turn it over to those,
those — ”

Never mind your cusswords. After
all, you think I’m a lady. Just follow
my lead and you’ll see one of the biggest
exhibitions of fireworks in the history
of this planet. Couldn’t happen any-
where else, but on Venus, where the
Double Cross is the planetary emblem,
it may work — yes,” she shook her curly
head dubiously, “it just might work.”

“All right — boss.” Frank surren-

dered.

There was no sleep for either of the
conspirators that rainy, windswept
night. As soon as darkness fell Joan
borrowed $500 from her partner,
swathed herself in jitbug netting and
departed on her visit to the governor.
She slipped back about midnight, face
and arms scratched and bruised as
though she had done some second story
work, jubilant as a refrigerator sales-
man who had just put over a big deal
with the Eskimos— and as communica-
tive as a clam.

Shortly thereafter Frank headed for
the Diggin’s. He got a sour look from
the dozing radio operator as he pre-
sented his message, a startled gasp as
the fellow read it, and a distinct feeling
that his life wasn’t worth two cents as
he departed and dodged back and forth
through the winding streets and stink-

ing alleys to outwit possible followers.

J_TE DUCKED into his hut just be-
fore the hazy daybreak and soon
made a great fuss about cooking break-
fast and starting work on his claim. As
the hours passed he stopped his digging
from time to time under the impression
that he heard planes passing over. But
on each occasion the ship — if there was
one — flew so high that it was invisible
in the mist.

Another soupy drizzle was blanketing
the valley when Mike arrived. He slid
down the cliff to land almost at Frank’s
feet in the midst of a miniature aval-
anche. It was evident the little man
had had no sleep either. In fact he
was positively jumpy and breathed a
loud sigh of relief when none of the
adjoining prospectors noticed his preci-
pitate descent.

“When do we start?” he gulped,
glancing nervously over his shoulder.

“Plenty of time,” smiled Joan as she
came across the gulch, cocked rifle
cradled under one arm. “Nobody knows
a thing about this.”

“I’m not so sure.” Mike shook a
doleful head. “Lou’s mighty smart.
He’s been watching me kinda funny all
morning.”

“Bunk. You’re lots smarter than he
is. Come on, though. We go up the
gulch first.”

“What about those safe conducts?”
ventured Frank.

“You get them only when I see the
Mother Lode.” Mike was trying his
best to be tough. “And you’ve both got
to leave your guns behind. I don’t
trust you.”

“That goes double.” Joan wasn’t
trying. “So you’re planning to bump
us off, are you? Uh uh!”

“Let’s compromise, then.” The little
Big Shot was in a spot. “You take
your gun. I take mine. But your part-

OUTLAW QUEEN OF VENUS

ner leaves his. That’s fair, ain’t it?”
“It is if you don’t walk behind me.”
Three abreast, with Frank in the
middle, they started up the gulch. At
first they watched each other like
hawks, but soon were so busy dodging
boulders, trying to keep their footing
in the muddy little stream which
poured down the hills and cursing
the low visibility which made the
yellow trees assume the shapes of
crouching animals that they forgot ev-
erything else.

An hour of this and they emerged on
a plateau overlooking the river. The
sticky heat was a little less oppressive
here and the mist thinned until they
could see for all of a hundred feet.

“I think somebody’s followin’ us,”
Mike panted as they stopped for a
rest. “I kinda feel like people was
lookin’ at me.”

“Boloney,” chuckled the girl. “We
waded the stream most of the way and
walked on bare rock the rest. Nobody
could follow that trail.”

“What if somebody spotted us from
the air with an infra-red beam?”
“Have you seen any planes?”

“Naw, but let’s get goin’. We’ve
rested enough. . . . Yeow! Look be-
hind you!”

A BOVE the ledge on which they were
sitting, a dead grey, swaying head
was rising, inch by inch. Its colorless
eyes, big as saucers, surveyed them
hungrily. Its gash of a mouth slavered
in anticipation.

“Gobble, gobble, gobble?” it in-
quired.

Joan shot from the hip. The head dis-
appeared and there was a great thrash-
ing about in the underbrush.

“Just a scamour,” she grunted.
“That’s who was looking.”

“You shouldn’t have fired.” Mike
was brave, now that the danger had

passed. “Gave our position dead away.”

“Pooh. Nobody ever comes here.”

They hiked for another hour among
the sawtoothed hills, Joan moving as
confidently as though she had been
there before, had memorized the route
from a map, or, so it crossed Frank’s
mind, was faking the whole thing like
a brilliant actress. At last she stopped
and pointed dramatically to a tangled
curtain of vines and orchids which
draped across a cliff face directly ahead.

“There it is, Mr. Mike,” she said.
“Look behind that tangle and you’ll
find the wealth of the Indies.”

“There’s probably more scamours in
there,” Mike hesitated. “You show the
path.”

With a groan of disgust she pushed
forward, apparently forgetting the Big
Shot’s gun. Frank brought up the rear,
thankful that he still had an automatic
in his shoulder holster.

Under the green “waterfall” the heat
and humidity were almost overpower-
ing. But the girl unearthed a flashlight
from her baggy pants and led the way
until, in the center of the cliff face, they
beheld the telltale oily black seam
flecked with yellow spots. It glowed
phosphorescently under the flash ray,
all of ten feet high and three thick.

At the sight the little man let out a
wild yell of triumph. Forgetting all
else, he flung himself at the vein, kiss-
ing it, trying to hug it in an ecstacy of
avarice. Frank wondered if his hard-
boiled partner would seize this oppor-
tunity. Instead she merely tapped Mike
on the arm.

“Our safe conducts now, pal,” she
snapped.

“What? Oh, sure.” The other
blinked like a man aroused from deep
sleep, then handed over the papers.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, “I don’t know
why you’re doin’ this for me, but I sure
appreciates it, an’ . . . ”

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“You surely appreciate it,” she cor-
rected him.

“Oh, yeh, sure.” As his eyes strayed
back to the vein, Joan gripped Frank’s
arm and whispered, “Come on. Let’s
get out of here while the going’s still
good.”

They fought their way directly
through the matted vines and broke into
the open to behold a strange scene.
Misty human figures crouched like
beasts of prey, were creeping toward
them across the little valley from all
directions.

“Through here and climb.” The girl
jerked her friend into a chimney-like
crevice in the cliff. “Hell’s going to
pop.”

AT HER words a rifle cracked some-
where to their left. Splinters of
stone showered around them. Other
guns replied as they began working
their way frantically upward. A tommy
started puttering not far away. Some-
where, someone turned on an infra red
and the battle became general in its
lurid, penetrating beams.

Reaching the top of the cliff, Joan
threw herself on the ground, panting,
and looked below.

“Ever hear of the gingham dog and
the calico cat?” she inquired noncha-
lantly. “If we’re lucky there won’t
even be any sawdust left in a few
hours.”

“Nor any meddling incors” snarled a
harsh voice. They twisted around to
find the square man in the yellow shirt
covering them with Frank’s old gun.
“Thought I smelled a rat when those
planes began piling in this morn.” Lou
stalked toward them. “You’ve got to
get up awfully early to catch me off-
scent.”

Quick as a cat, Joan rolled over and
over toward him. Caught off-guard
despite his boast, their enemy stumbled

against her hurtling body, recovered
and clamped down on the trigger of the
tommy just as Frank made a flying
tackle. The shots went wild.

But The Shirt was by no means
through. He kicked himself free just
as Joan rose and flew at him, scratch-
ing and kicking in the places which hurt
worst. Then Frank returned to the at-
tack, both fists flying. Lou staggered
under the onslaught, struck his heel on
a boulder, and slipped backward over
the edge of the cliff, gun still clutched
in his hand.

Joan screamed, rushed to the edge,
looked over and dodged back before a
gush of machine gun bullets and pro-
fanity.

“He’s straddling a bush about ten
feet down,” she gasped. We don’t dare
lean over or he’ll drill us, but I’ll hit him
on the head with a rock if he climbs
back.”

Suddenly, however, the swearing
ceased and a note of sick terror crept
into the voice of The Shirt.

“Help,” he yelled. “I can’t ...”

Frank peered cautiously over the
edge and gasped. Their foe had dropped
his gun and was clinging desperately
to the bush with both hands. And, in
turn, the plant-animal thing he held was
twisting and squirming as it endeavored
to withdraw into its hole in the cliff.

“Quick. Quick!” Lou’s spine was
proving as yellow as his shirt as he
fought to hold on and at the same time
find some foothold in the steeply slop-
ing precipice. “Throw me a rope. Any-
thing! I’ll pay well. I’ll make you
rich — Big Shots. I can’t die.”

Joan merely shrugged at this raving.
But Frank, unable to bear the stark
fear in that harsh voice, ripped off his
belt, threw himself flat and dangled it
as far over as he could.

Lou released the bush with one hand,
made a grab for the heavy buckle — and

OUTLAW QUEEN OF VENUS

missed.

“Closer!” he yelped. “Closer, you
stupid id — ”

The shrub chose that instant to make
another bid for freedom.

And The Shirt fell, turning slowly
and screaming, for what seemed an
hour before his body disappeared in
the mists.

“CAVED me shooting him when you
pulled him up,” grunted Joan.

“You’re a hardboiled huzzy! ” Frank
was struggling to get that dreadful,
twisted face out of his mind.

“Have to be if I stay alive in Wild-
oatia,” she grinned ruefully. “Sorry,
Sir Gallahad. You must think I’m pret-
ty awful.” With a start he saw that
there were tears in her eyes.

“I don’t really, Joan.” He took her
rough little hand. “You’re really swell.
It’s just that this place gives me the
jim willies. . . . What do we do next?”

“Get back to the ship.” Her fingers
curled around his warmly.

“Without benefit of sunshine?”

“Uh huh. If we follow the top of this
ridge about six miles we’ll be looking
right down on the place where we left
it.”

“Then what?”

“Ever do any parachuting?” She
asked this over one shoulder as she
hurried off.

“Sure. During my military training.
And I’ve bailed out several times since.”

“Good. I bought two chutes last
night and cached them at the top of the
cliff. It’ll take some tall slipping to
land on the hatch or in the burned area
around it. Think you can do it?”

“I’ll try.”

“Good boy. . . . For that you can
hold my hand again if you like.”

And so they left behind and beneath
them the sounds of the battle for the
Mother Lode and hiked rapidly south-

ward. When they reached their destin-
ation and Frank looked over still an-
other beetling cliff at the black dot in
the swamp which marked the resting
place of his stolen patrol, he almost re-
gretted his promise. The feat which
Joan proposed would have been im-
possible on Earth, but on Venus with
its lesser gravitation and heavier at-
mosphere, it was barely possible.

Grimly he slipped into the pack which
she unearthed, but she stopped him
before he could jump.

“I’ll go first.” Her voice trembled
only slightly. “I’ve done more of this
sort of thing than you. I’m pretty sure
I can make the hatch. Then, if you
miss, I’ll be down there to use a gun
on scamours — and things. Frank ...”
“Yes?” He could see she was scared.
“If neither of us make it, I just want
to tell you that for reasons you don’t
know, it was necessary to try, anyhow.”
“I think I understand, a little.”
“And Frank.” She caught his lapels
with her two hands and this time he
didn’t try to fend her off. “Since this
may be my last chance, I want to tell
you that — that I’ll team up with you
forever, if we make it — and you want
to.”

Suddenly she was in his arms and
he was covering her funny, freckled
face with kisses.

CHE broke away after a while, gave
him one more lopsided grin, then
turned and leaped far out, pulling the
rip cord as she did so.

The chute expanded like a white blos-
som and drifted slowly downward un-
der her slight weight. Once it swung
her toward the cliff. She was ready
and fended herself off with her feet.
Again it started drifting downwind,
but she caught the cords and slipped
it back into position.

Down, down she went ... a hundred

0£l

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

feet . . . two hundred feet . . . with the
chute growing smaller until it reminded
Frank of The Shirt’s white face as he
fell. A puff of vapor hid her from sight
and Frank’s heart almost stopped. Then
the air cleared and she was there once
more. After an interminable time she
landed square on the hatch and was
fighting to maintain her balance and
spill the air out of the tumbling silken
folds before she could be jerked head
over heels into the hungry swamp.

Frank said a prayer and followed.

He brought up with a sickening jerk
as the chute opened late after he had
fallen for half the distance, banged
himself painfully against the cliff face,
lost sight of the hatch as he spun diz-
zily, discovered it again far to the right,
yanked frantically at a handful of
cords, managed to spill much too much
air, plummeted downward, recovered
blindly, grabbed some more cords . . .
and splashed sickeningly into the ooze a
full thirty feet from the ship.

“Don’t move. Don’t move!”
screamed the girl as he struggled to
disentangle himself. “Wait. I’ll throw
you a rope.”

Frank forced himself to relax despite
the mounting hysteria that gripped him
as he sank to his shoulders in the suck-
ing mud. Then, he discovered to his
amazement, he stopped sinking. After
a dazed moment he realized that his
weight was just balancing the displaced
earth and water.

And now, at the edge of the burned
area, a row of slimy, snaggle-toothed
heads lifted, surveyed him owlishly,
then started forward to investigate.
Frank held his breath and tried not to
bat an eyelash.

“Here’s the rope,” screamed Joan as
she reappeared on the hatch. A coil
slapped down beside him. He snatched
at it and felt himself being yanked out
of the ooze and dragged slowly toward

the ship like a fish on a hook.

“Gobble!” barked the scamours and
started after him in earnest, black
paws splashing like canoe paddles. The
nearest fastened on the seat of his
trousers. The cloth ripped. The next
instant he was scrambling up and hull
of the ship and turning to beat off the
ravening crew with some club which
Joan thrust into his hands.

“ C ORRY I’m wearing your only other

K "pair of pants,” she twinkled at him
when they were safe inside. “Perhaps
a towel and a safety pin. . . .”

Frank didn’t think it was funny.

“What do you want me to do now,
you shameless baggage?”

“Get back to the lode.”

He pushed the necessary buttons.
Hell broke loose beneath them as the
rockets let go. The patrol staggered,
groaned, then shot from her mucky bed
like a cork out of a champagne bottle.

They circled the mist-filled alley of
the lode close enough to see by means
of the infra-red that the Big Shots were
still engaged in a bloody free-for-all.

“Give her the gun!” Joan command-
ed when they had wheeled back again
and were hovering over the center of
the fray and not a hundred feet above
it.

Disregarding the fact that a number
of those below had now discovered their
presence and were firing on the ship,
Frank pushed a lever marked
FREE FALL ACCELERATOR
WARNING

NOT TO BE USED IN ATMOS-
PHERE

A plume of snarling atomic heat
burst from the under rockets, struck the
ground and spread over it like the flame
from a blowtorch.

Before Frank could drag himself off
the floor and force his leaden hands to
reverse the switch, the patrol was

OUTLAW QUEEN OF VENUS

twenty-five miles high and the outside
wall of the control room was glowing
cherry red from friction with the air.

“Whew!” Joan was gasping in the
sudden heat and endeavoring to stanch
the blood from a nasty cut in her fore-
head. “Ask the man who owns one!”

They drifted down again till the
valley was directly beneath the view
port. It was now a black expanse with
here and there little tongues of flame
licking at the scorched vegetation.

“Poor Mike,” sighed the girl. “I sort
of liked the runt.”

“Now what?” Her companion was
striving not to be sick.

“One more job. Drive her over to
that landslide in the river just above
the Diggin’s.”

“But the rockets won’t affect that.
And besides . , . the prospectors . . .
you wouldn’t. . . .”

“Don’t worry, pard. It’ll be all right
— I hope.”

\yHEN they were idling over the
tumbled slide which had put a big
kink in the river above the village, Joan
instructed him to unscrew the viewport.
Then she rummaged in her pockets and
brought out the little leaden box which
he had seen the day previously. She
punched several holes in the top, leaned
down and dropped the container into
the roaring yellow waters beneath.

“Step on that accelerator again,
brother,” she cried, “and don’t spare
the horses.”

This time Frank took the precaution
to flatten himself on the floor before
the rockets took hold. So, through pop-
ping eyes, he was able to see what fol-
lowed.

First the waters boiled under the im-
pact of the ship’s blast. Then the U-23S
in Joan’s box detonated with atom-de-
stroying force just after it hit the sur-
face of the river. And finally the whole

visible surface of Venus disappeared
in one vast sheet of flame. Luckily they
were going up so fast they outran the
force of an explosion which must have
rivaled that of a young earthquake.

“Goodbye the Diggin’s and my one
hundred thousand dollars,” said Joan
shakily when the game little ship had
returned to normal once more. “And
goodbye the airfield when the flood hits
it in about ten minutes. If any of the
Big Shots escaped our strafing in the
valley the}' won’t be able to communi-
cate with Venusport or find a ship to
take them home. On the other hand,
the incors should have enough warning
to get to high ground.”

“What do we do next, Napoleon?”
Frank was awed.

“Hightail it for Venusport, of course.
The government should be thoroughly
disorganized by the loss of all its lead-
ers who came tearing up here after the
Mother Lode just as I gambled they
would. Divide and rule, I calls it. When
your friends can’t get together, then
split up your enemies. Whoops!” She
executed a few dance steps in the
crowded cabin, then sank into a chair,
completely exhausted.

“Are They planning to take over?”
“With bells on! I have a hunch the
space patrol will help us, if necessary.
They’ve been honing to take a whack at
the Big Shots for years, but Washington
wouldn’t let ’em so long as cheap fuel
was coming in regularly. If the patrol
comes in with us, that ought to square
you .... for swiping their ship, I
mean.”

“You said £ us’!” He looked at her
thoughtfully. “Are you . . . ?”

“Umm!” She closed her eyes wear-
ily. “Sorta wears a fellow down after
a while.”

“In that case, why did you potshot
me the first time we met?”

“Because I needed a ship like yours

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

so bad I could taste it. It would have
been only a question of days after the
horde of prospectors arrived before the
Mother Lode would have been traced
and re-discovered. If the Big Shots got
it in their clutches, goodbye to all Their
Hour plans.

“But you might have explained.”

“Maybe. But I figured at first you
were a maverick patrolman planning to
go over to the Big Shots. That has
happened. Excuse it, pard.”

“Pard.” He savored the word.
“Look,” he resumed after he had set the
ship’s course straight toward Venusport
and more trouble, “if we’re to team up,
oughtn’t you tell me your real name.
I’m darned sure it’s not Joan Smith.

(Continued from page 6)

TTAVE you picked up a copy of the new Mam-
moth Detective (now on the stands) ? If
you haven’t, get down there and buy a copy be-
fore you miss a mighty swell issue. Among its
authors are your favorites: Robert Bloch; How-
ard Browne (Author of “Warrior Of The Dawn”) ;
and Leroy Yerxa.

T TNIVERSAL PICTURES has queried Don Wil-
cox on the film rights to “The Whispering
Gorilla” and Don is quite excited. It seems
here’s another of our writers who has gone “up-
stairs.” Fortunately, we have a huge supply of
his manuscripts on hand,

“OHADOWS At Noon" is the title of a new
^ book which has an element of fantasy in it
that might make it interesting to you readers of
that type of literature. It details an imaginary
air raid on New York, and follows the lives of a
selected group of people, and depicts the effect
the air raid has on them. The fantastic descrip-
tion of New York during a great raid will thrill
you. You can get it at all bookstores.

TAO you know how many bees there are in a
■*-'* hive? Observation shows that a hive or
colony of bees has its maximum population dur-
ing the time of storing surplus honey. At this
time, the hive contains about 50,000 to 75,000
workers, one queen, and a few hundred to a

“Well, it’s a long story.” She slipped
a thin hand into his, thought better of it,
and cuddled up on his lap. “Once upon
a time a little girl was concentrated.
And there was a professor chap there
who’d specialized in 20th century litera-
ture ’fore he came out here — to make
his fortune. And he nicknamed the girl
Sadie Thompson, like a character in an
old book or play or something where it
rained all the time and . . .”

“Sadie Thompson!” Frank almost
dropped her.

“Yeh. But that still wasn’t her real
name,” she went on drowsily. “Real
name’s Sadie Griggs. Tom Griggs is my
dad.”

THE END

thousand drones. During the fall and early win-
ter, the colony decreases in number. And when
brood-rearing begins in the spring, the colony
has become so reduced in population that 10,000
to 15,000 workers constitute a good swarm.
Drones are non-existent at this time, for they
are all driven out at the end of the summer
honeyflow.

In the animal world, parasites are not wanted.

TTERE'S another: Did you know that the rac-
coon washes its food before eating? This
is done by holding the food in its forepaws and
shaking it in water.

There is a definite reason for such behavior.
The coon lives near streams and much of its
food consists of frogs, stranded, fish, crawfish,
and similar creatures captured in shallow water.
There is the necessity, then, of rinsing the mud
and sand from its aquatic prey. The tendency
toward such behavior is so strong that the ani-
mal will usually go through the motions of wash-
ing its food even when no water is accessible!

No wonder the Germans call the raccoon Wasclt-
baer, which means wash bear.

A NOTHER scientific bit: The Great Salt Lake
in Utah, it seems, is not a favored piscine
haven. According to the United States Bureau of
Fisheries, no fish can live in the lake. With the
exception of the larvae of certain flies, the only
living thing found in the lake is a small brine
shrimp.

A ND another item : In perfect storage for cen-
turies! That is the description of the edible
animal flesh found in the frozen region of Siberia.
The animal bodies found were those of mammoths

THE EDITOR'S NOTEBOOK

and the wooly rhinoceros. In spite of the fact
that these animals have been dead since the Ice
Age, scientists say, one can still eat their flesh.
“Eat,” but what about “enjoy?” After you!

A LL of us have heard of harmful bacteria. We
know that many diseases and epidemics are
caused by these minute creatures. For this reason
most people think of the word, bacteria, as being
synonymous with trouble or harm. As a matter
of fact, only a very small proportion of the known
bacteria are disease-causing bacteria. The vast
majority are helpful and some are vital.

Bacteria find much use in industry; many of
the commercial preparations of the chemical in-
dustry would be impossible in the absence of
bacteria; the source of many basic compounds,
especially in the making of plastics, is in the prod-
ucts of the helpful bacteria.

In the wine and beer industry, any harm to
the bacteria would be dangerous, and any change
in their properties would be a death blow to
production. Fermentation of the raw product is a
necessary step; and as the great Pasteur dis-
covered, it is the bacteria alone which are re-
sponsible. These industries, as well as many others,
hire research bacteriologists to care for and im-
prove the bacteria and their products.

The same holds true for the cheese industry and
the bakery industry. Without the aid of these
minute, microscopic animals, neither of these in-
dustries would exist. Yeasts, closely related to
bacteria, enable our mothers and bakers to sup-
ply us with our daily bread. In the large cheese
industry, much improvement and variation has
been accomplished because of the fact that changes
have been made in kind and quantity of bacteria
used in the preparations.

Perhaps the most important function of the
bacteria is in changing the waste products of liv-
ing things into something which they can use
again. Without such a constant source of re-
newed materials, life, not only of man, but all
life, would soon cease to exist on earth. These
amazing creatures take the carbon dioxide which
we return to the air and convert it into usable
oxygen. The same holds for nitrogen, the basic
element for body-building material called protein.

A FTER reading all the remarkable scientific
findings in these columns, it may seem sur-
prising — almost unbelievable — to tell you that,
here in the United States, a common everyday
occurrence goes scientifically unexplained.

According to the Department of Interior, the
47 hot springs at Arkansas Hot Springs National
Park are still puzzling to research men — the “exact
mechanism of the springs is still a mystery.”

Of course, where definite information is lack-
ing, theory exists. And several explanations have
been advanced for the daily million-gallon flow
at temperatures averaging 140 degrees. The most
favored of these is the meteoric theory.

“This theory supposes,” states a bulletin re-
cently issued by the Department, “that rain water
which sinks in the valley floor between Sugar
Loaf and West Mountain of the Ouachita range
is heated on its underground path by passing close
to a mass of hot rock before it gushes out.”

Park geologists explain another theory. This
is that the hot springs water has never before
been at the surface of the earth, but comes from
heated rocks at the earth’s interior, where it es-
capes when molten rock cools and hardens.

Other theories, considered less likely than the
above, are that the water may be heated by chem-
ical reactions, by friction of subterranean rock
masses in motion, by the heat of compression from
the overlying rock, or by radioactive minerals.

A /T ANY people believe that birds hatch their
eggs because of some maternal instinct in
them. According to Dr. Johann A. Loeser, the
reason birds hatch their eggs is because of a
simple sensation in the skin caused by “hatching-
spots.” These spots appear just previous to the
time for hatching and are believed to be caused
by hormones. These spots usually occur in one
parent, usually the male, and this parent performs
the sitting process during hatching.

These hatching spots are like an inflammation
on the bird and the heat helps the eggs to hatch.
The eggs, on the other hand, are nice and cool
and the parent enjoys this coolness on the inflam-
mation. Thus when the weather is very hot and
the eggs are warmed and do not cool the birds,
they will often forsake the eggs. Some birds such
as the Egyptian plover or the African ostrich only
sit on their eggs during the cooler hours of the
night when the eggs can give them relief in their
hatching spots.

To further prove that there is no maternal in-
stinct involved, experiments have been performed
in which the eggs have been replaced with glass
eggs or stones and the parent will sit on them
just as if they -were its own eggs. The “eggs”
will even be turned over at intervals so that the
bird can exchange the warmed top surface for
the bottom cooler surface.

Moreover, the birds will sit on the eggs only
as long as the hatching spots last. To prove this,
eggs were substituted for the bird’s eggs just prior
to their being hatched. The hatching spots on the
bird disappeared just about the time when the
original eggs should have hatched. The bird,
thereupon, abandoned the eggs regardless of the
fact that they had not yet hatched.

But just as soon as the eggs hatch the situa-
tion is changed. The hatching of the eggs was
done for purely selfish reasons on the part of
the parent. But the parents care for their young
brood because of a feeling of responsibility for
the helpless living creatures. The change from
inanimate objects to a living brood makes all the
difference in the world to the parental attitude
of the birds. Rap.

’$ IN A NAME?

BY BERKELEY LIVINGSTON

When fhe city editor sent Lou P. Geroux
out for items of local color, neither had any
idea that it would be ail one hue — blood red!

T HE editor tilted his chair back,
adjusted his glasses more firmly
on his nose and said:

“Geroux, I want a story on some par-
ticularly section of Chicago’s Loop.
Give it a little life; make it colorful.
Understand?”

Lou P. Geroux shifted the three chips,
each representing a dollar, which he
had won playing ‘26’ at Casey’s Castle,
from his right to his left hand.

“Sure thing, boss,” he said agreeably.
Any particular part of the Loop you’d
like to have me cover?”

The editor snorted loudly, and said:
“I don’t give a damn where you go !
So long as you stay out of Casey’s Cas-
tle. Lately, too many of your stories
have been inspired by that cheap bar
whiskey Casey serves. If I hear that
you’ve been down there bending your
elbow over his bar, I’ll send you back
to covering court news again. The di-
vorce courts! Understand?”

“Sure. I understand, boss. And I
know just where I’m going. Right over
to Moe’s Mansion. Plenty of color
there. Well,” Lou said, absent-minded-
ly scratching himself where his pants
were shiniest,” have space ready for the
story of the year. Lou is off to scoop-
the-Loop!”

The door closed with its usual bang
behind the lank, ungainly figure of the

reporter. A faint odor, a sweet and
sour mingling of beer and whiskey,
hovered in the air near the door for a
second as though it were an essential
part of Lou which had been forgotten
in his haste to leave.

The thin nostrils of the editor’s large
red-veined nose twitched in remem-
brance: and his hand reached down and
pulled a quart bottle from a drawer. He
poured a generous shot into a water
glass.

The label on the bottle read “Casey’s
Castle. Best Bar Bourbon.”

T OU almost passed the strange-look-
ing flop house, in his hurry to get
Moe’s. Almost; but something about
its dilapidated, run-down appearance,
its crumbling red brick face, its look of
absolute misery made him stay his
steps.

“Hmm,” he said slowly, as his eyes
wandered up and down the architectu-
ral eyesore, “never saw this joint be-
fore. Looks old enough to have come
in with the first settlers.”

He walked over to the dust-grimed
glass door. Barely decipherable letter-
ing read: “Rates SO Cents.” He poked
a speculative hand at the glass, and
the door swung creakingly away from
his palm. He entered and found him-
self before a narrow, gloomy staircase.

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

Up above, at the head of the stairs, was
a dim ghostly radiance.

“Well, Lou old boy,” the reporter
said to himself, “if it’s atmosphere
you’re looking for, this is it.”

The stairs creaked and groaned with
each step he took. And their protest-
ing sounds seemed to continue, even
after he arrived at the register desk at
the end of the stair. A single small
electric bulb in an old-fashioned fixture
cast a weak glow over the run-down
lobby. The lobby was deserted. Nor
was there anyone behind the desk. A
small bell stood invitingly near to Lou’s
right hand. He accepted the invitation.
It made a tinny sound.

Lou’s eyes blinked in startled wonder
at what came out of a room behind the
desk. If it wasn’t Father Time, it was
certainly a close relative of that gen-
tleman. The only things missing were
the hour glass and staff. The beard and
night-shirt were there, however.

“Look, old-timer,” Lou said apologet-
ically, “I didn’t know you were asleep.
But I saw the sign on the door.
And ”

“Quite all right, young man,” said the
Methuselah in the night shirt. “Just
sign the register. I’ll see what I have
for you.”

His voice was as faded and old as
the rest of him.

Lou’s fountain pen point made an
inky puddle on the yellow - with - age
paper of the register.

The old man brought his rheumy eyes
down close to the blot.

“Can’t make it out,” he said after
staring at the blot for a few seconds.
“What does it say?”

“Lou P. Geroux,” Lou told him.

“Ah, yes, of course” the old man
said.

Lou had the strangest feeling that
he had been expected. The old gray
beard closed the register and said:

“Well now, I’ve just one room left.
Just walk down this corridor to the
rear. It’s the only room there. Good
night.”

And without a further word, the old
man turned and walked back through
the door from which he had come.

Lou walked to the rear, muttering:

“What a joint! The desk clerk is a
refugee from a ouija board. He doesn’t
ask for any money. None of the rooms
seems to have a key. At least my room
doesn’t have one. And I walked into
this with my eyes open. Well,” he
concluded, as he faced the heavy oak
door which seemed to be the entrance
to his room,” you’d better sleep that
way. And with all your clothes on,
too.”

The heavy oaken door closed behind
him and he looked, with open-mouthed
curiosity, at the room he was in.

His eyes noted the huge brick fire-
place, the heavy hand-hewn table on
which two tall candlesticks had been
placed, the bearskin rugs on the bare
wooden floor, even a suit of armor in a
corner. The most interesting piece of
furniture in the candle-lit room, how-
ever, was the four-posted bed in a far
corner.

“Holy suffering Republicans,” ejac-
ulated Lou, “people haven’t used those
beds since Plymouth Rock was just an-
other pebble on the beach.”

TJ\E WALKED over to it and sat
down. The flickering candle flames
threw strange distorted shadows against
the walls. The room and all its furni-
ture seemed part of a long-gone era.
And as he sat there, Lou felt an over-
powering desire to go to sleep. He
knew he shouldn’t. After all, he had
only come in to get some local color.
His thoughts “began to wander.

“Local color. White candles, yellow
flames, gray smoke— tha’s funny — just

WHAT'S IN A NAME

thought that suit of armor moved —
must be getting sleepy — think I’ll lie
down — for few minutes. . . .

The water was so thick and oily. And
that shiny suit of armor was gaining on
him. Lou knew he had to escape. If he
could only reach the surface , he knew
he’d be safe. But it was so far above!
Then, fust as he felt a steel arm take
hold of his ankle, he broke through the
surface and was — Awake!

Lou grinned sheepishly to himself.
He turned his head and saw that the
candles were burning even more bright-
ly than before. As was the fire in the
fireplace. He sat up, stretched — then
yelped in consternation:

“What the hell went on here while
I was asleep!”

He looked down at his strangely
clothed body. Strangely clothed was
right. He was wearing a pair of doub-
lets and a heavy velvet tunic, tied to-
gether with a narrow leather belt. On
his feet were a pair of soft buckskin
sandals. His bewildered speculations
were cut short by sounds which came
from behind the heavy oak door of his
room. There was a barely audible
shouting and now a furious pounding
on the door.

“Take it easy, you jerks,” Lou said
angrily. “The door’s open, c’mon in.”

Suddenly the door was flung wide and
two men came charging in. They came
to within a few feet of Lou, and stopped.

Lou looked at them closely and a
grin split his wide, humorous mouth.
Now he knew what had happened to
him. He had walked into the house of
some eccentric: evidently a man who
liked to play practical jokes. For the
two men who confronted him were in
the habiliments of the Middle Ages.
Long robes covered their bodies. Cowls
attached to the robes made it difficult to
see their faces, but he could see one of
them was bearded. The bearded one

was evidently the leader, for he said:

“Aye. It is he whom she hath de-
scribed.”

Lou, the grin still on his face, said:

“Sure it’s me. Who’d you think uh’d
be here? Yehudi?”

The grin was wiped off his mouth,
however, when the one without the
beard advanced and grabbed him in a
stranglehold. The character in the
beard rushed in to help his friend. Not
that Lou had showed any signs of fight.
In fact he had twisted his head about
to snarl:

“Hey, Muscle; easy with that hustle!
I can walk without help!”

The two didn’t seem to understand.
Without further talk, they rushed him
out of the room. They went so fast
Lou’s feet hit only the high spots in
the floor, in transit.

They turned left on coming through
the door, went down a series of stone
steps so fast, Lou thought they’d taken
an elevator; then through another door.
The door was an entrance to a room,
bare of any furniture, other than a
squat, wide, throne-like chair, on which
sat one of the most beautiful women,
Lou had ever seen.

She was dressed in a flowing garment
of some fine material so sheer that she
might not have had anything on at all,
for all the covering it did. A headdress
of the same material covered her blond
hair. Both headdress and gown had
jewels sewn haphazardly in the mate-
rial.

A gay yet gentle smile showed tiny
white teeth as she looked at the breath-
less reporter.

“So you’ve come at last,” she said
softly.

Lou, still trying to regain his breath,
wrenched himself out of the embrace
of the beardless character and said:

“Look, tiitz, if I’d a known that you
wanted to see me, I’d a come a lot

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

sooner. That is, if the boys here hadn’t
tried to hold me back.”

The gay gentle smile was still on
her lips as she said:

“So Mark and Skwirly tried to hold
you back?”

J QU’S mouth seemed to stretch from
J ear to ear, so wide was his grin, as
he turned to laugh at the two who had
brought him to her. But the grin was
wiped from his face at the obvious ter-
ror her words seemed to have created in
the two. The guy in the beard finally
got his voice back from his sandals
where it had seemed to have fallen, and
bleated:

“Believe him not! We brought him
as quickly as could be done.”

“Sure they did, beautiful,” Lou has-
tened to assure her. “I was just ribbing
a little.”

“So you think I am beautiful,” she
asked, her blue eyes switching to Lou.

“Sure; but tell me, beautiful: What’s
the gag? Who’re you and who are
these two characters behind me? If
it’s what I think it is, you got a swell
setup for it.”

A small frown appeared on the
smooth white skin of her forehead. She
said in a puzzled voice:

“I do not quite understand you. But
the one in the beard is Mark. And the

other is Skwirly ”

“That’s what I thought when I saw
him,” Lou interrupted. “But do go on,
Luscious. I’m all ears; just like a lov-
ing cup.”

“No,” she went on, “I do not under-
stand you. But that is as it should be.
You come from a different world?”

Her eyes were pensive now as though
she wondered what sort of a world he
did come from.

Lou, feeling more and more at ease,
said:

“Y’know, beautiful, old Crumplepuss

my editor, is sure going to like this
story. Beautiful gal rents rundown flop
in the Loop, just to satisfy the humor
in her. And how she ”

She broke in on his ramblings as
though he had interrupted a train of
thought.

“Don’t you want to know who I am
and why you are here?” she said.

He nodded his head.

“I am Lupe Geroux,” she announced.

He looked blank for a minute, then
grinned and said :

“Well, what d’ya know. I’m Lou P.
Geroux, too.”

“Yes, I know that,” she said.

“You do?”

“Of course, only a Lou P. Geroux
could have slept in that room.”

Lou looked bewildered at all this.

“Don’t you know what loupe-garou
means?” she asked.

He shook his head dumbly.

“It means werewolf.” She smiled as
sweetly as though she had said it meant
chocolates.

Lou’s grin became a little sickly.
This dame was not only beautiful but
also dizzy. And it wasn’t from riding
the merry-go-round.

“Look, beautiful,” he said, “you
oughta lay off the stuff. I hear it makes
you lose your hair. It makes you
balmy in the belfry too!”

She went on as though she hadn’t
heard him.

“Yes, although you are not in reality
a loupe-garou, you are a descendant of
one. So the keeper of the records let
you sleep here tonight. And soon, very
soon, it shall be midnight, the unholy
hour. Then I will help you attain your
rightful heritage. Does that not please
you?”

The sixty-four dollar question re-
mained unanswered as far as Lou was
concerned. All he wanted to do was
get out of there — but fast.

WHAT’S IN A NAME

This dame was carrying a joke too
far. Growing wolf’s paws at the ends
of her wrists. Making her ears long
and furry like that. What was she
trying to do, scare him? Well, she was !

|1TE DIDN’T realize he had been
backing away from her until he
bumped into the trembling body of
Skwirly. He heard Mark whisper in
his beard, “The hour is at hand. The
she-wolf comes forth.”

Lou’s horrified, unbelieving gaze was
riveted on Lupe Geroux. The impos-
sible was taking place before his very
eyes. Her tiny pink ears were shaping
into long, hairy, monstrous things. Her
arms had developed paws at the wrists;
and the paws had reached up and
snatched the headdress from her hair.
Already the lovely face was lengthen-
ing and shaping itself into that of a
wolf.

He heard Skwirly moan in terror;
and even Mark threw his hand before
his eyes, as though to shut out the sight.
Lou didn’t wait for the rest of the floor
show. He’d seen enough.

Before any of them realized his in-
tentions he had twisted away from
Skwirly and was streaking for the door.
Somewhere, a clock began to toll the
midnight hour. The solemn sounds lent
wings to his flying feet. His long legs
made short work of the stone stairs.
Behind him he could hear a horrible,
growling sound.

As he reached the top of the stair he
looked behind and saw a huge wolf-
shape hard at his heels. He let out a
howl of horror and lit out for the lobby.
Then he made a mistake. Instead of
turning left when he came through the
door, which led to the stairs, he turned
right. That brought him back to the
room in which he had slept. It was too
late to turn back. He dashed in and
leaped upon the bed, drawing the cov-

ers over his head to shut out the sight
and sound of what was after him.

But it was to no avail. For immedi-
ately afterward he felt a huge body land
there beside him. The werewolf, in
her haste to reach Lou, had skidded on
one of the bearskin rugs into the suit
of armor. And with the sound of the
animal body striking the bed, there was
the louder crash of steel falling to the
floor.

Lou didn’t hear the suit of armor fall.
Lou didn’t hear anything after the wolf
landed on the bed.

Lou had fainted!

11TE OPENED his eyes slowly. His
mind was blank for several sec-
onds, then memory returned. Lupe
Geroux, Mark, Skwirly, and what had
happened.

“What a dream!” he said as he
turned on his side for greater comfort.
And stopped turning. Almost stopping
breathing. There beside him on the
bed, was the figure of a beautiful wom-
an. He didn’t have to look twice. It
was Lupe Geroux, and she was asleep.
Carefully he maneuvered his body to
the edge of the bed. He was glad to
see that he was dressed as he had been
when he had first come to this mad
hotel. Slowly his baggy, flannel-clad
legs slid ofer the edge of the bed and
found the floor. The rest of his body
carefully followed.

He took a single stealthy step away
from the bed and a soft, sweet voice
inquired:

“Where are you going now?”

Lou didn’t bother turning to answer
her. He just made feet in the direction
of the door. She almost beat him to
it, though. She was a close second at
that point, but Lou still had to negotiate
the lobby and stairs to the street.

He noticed, in passing, that cobwebs
had formed across the door through

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

which the old man had come the night
before. He had no time to investigate
them, however. He was too busy get-
ting to the street.

His hand was on the doorknob, at the
finish; and her hand was on his shoul-
der. It was a tie. Lou had lost. They
walked out into the street together, her
hand holding his.

“Look, beautiful” Lou said des-
peration as they stopped on the walk,
I’ve got a job to take care of, things
to do, places to go. I can’t be lugging
you around with me all day. You un-
derstand, don’t you?”

He had to admit that she had the
most disconcerting faculty of not paying
attention to him. Just now she was
looking with wide enraptured eyes at
the street scene before her.

It was just a beat-out street at the
tail end of Chicago’s loop. Besides
themselves, there was only a bum, sleep-
ing off a night’s “smoke” drunk on a
Keep the City Clean refuse box, to be
seen. It was the hour of dawn, that
hour when all the joints and flops on the
street called it a night and went to bed.
It was still too early for the workers and
shoppers to come down.

She turned her gaze back to Lou and
said:

“I think I shall like this place. But
you must find me a castle. It is not
right that Lupe, head of the Ancient Or-
der of Werewolves, shall be without a
castle.”

Lou was beginning to wish more and
more that he had gone on to Moe’s
Mansions the night before.

“Ancient Order of Werewolves,” he
muttered. “How nice! I suppose the
initiation fee is two quarts of blood.”

“Oh no,” she corrected him. “For
you, it will be just a couple of pints.”

“The Red Cross isn’t going to like
this,” he warned her, “I’ve got an ap-
pointment with them for tomorrow.”

They were brought back to their
surrounding by a strange voice whining
hoarsely:

“Could you spare a guy the price of a
cupa coffee?”

J ^OU turned and looked into the un-
shaven, unwashed face of the bum
who had been asleep on the refuse box.
His hand reached down into a pants
pocket and pulling out one of the chips
he had won at Casey’s Castle, said:
“Don’t be so unpatriotic. Besides,
a cup of coffee would probably kill you.”
He tossed the chip and said, “Go out
there and get yourself a meal. Now
scram.”

But the mooch seemed to have forgot-
ten about Lou. He was staring at the
girl with a frank and embarrassing in-
tentness. Lou looked at her again and
realized that although her attire would
have been the fashion at the Order of
Werewolves ball, it might be a little
too spectacular for daytime wear in
Chicago’s Loop.

“Beat it ’bo!” he said savagely, “You
made me for a touch. Hit the road
before I holler Copper!”

The bum shuffled off, still looking at
her over his shoulder.

Lou stood silent for several seconds,
lost in thought. What was he going to
do with her? He couldn’t just let her
run around loose, to play blood-bank
on an unsuspecting public. Nor could
they just stand around like this all day.
If there were only some spot that was
open this early. But of course there
was! Lou remembered now!

He whistled a cruising cab to a stop.
“C’mon, tutz,” he said, hustling her
into the cab. “I’m going to show you
things.” To the driver he said:

“Opal Theatre, on Elm and Clark.”
He leaned back on the seat beside
her, quite pleased with himself at the
way he had solved that problem. That

WHAT’S IN A NAME

is, until she brought up the one that
was bothering her.

“Are you taking me to my castle?”
“Uh — your castle?” he stammered.
“Yes, of course. Well, beautiful, I sort
of want to surprise you. We won’t go
there until later. At night, sometime.”
She reached out and patted his hand
reassuringly.

“How right you are,” she said. “It
will be so much better at night.”

The cab pulled up before the Opal
Theater, an “open all night, fifteen
cents” movie house. The cashier’s
sleep-hungry eyes flickered in startled
wonder at the strange couple that had
come out of the cab.

Lou noticed his questioning look, and
throwing thirty cents through the slot
in the glass, said:

“Don’t mind her. She’s just practic-
ing up for Hallowe’en.”

TT WASN’T till they were in the lobby
that Lou noticed what was being
shown that day. A double feature, with
those meanies of the movies, Franken-
stein and Dracula.

“Wonder what Frankie and Dracie
would think of their little sister, Lupe,”
was his grim thought as he piloted her
down the aisle.

“Why that’s Dracula,” she said, as
they sat down.

“Friend of yours, hunh?”

“Sh ! ” she whispered. “I want to ob-
serve his technique.”

After watching the screen in silence
for a few minutes, Lupe gave vent to a
vexed, “Oh, no!”

“Something wrong?” Lou asked.
“Yes. It is just as they say. He’s
the old-fashioned type of practitioner.”
On the screen, Dracula was engaged
just then in sharpening his teeth on the
heroine’s jugular vein. The heroine
wasn’t too happy about what was going
on. Either that, or she had decided

it was time to practice her singing les-
son.

“Well,” said Lou, after watching the
scene, “I don’t know whether he’s old-
fashioned or not. But I do know he’s
the sort of guy who likes to get his
teeth into things.”

“You don’t understand,” she said
condescendingly. “But after midnight
you will.”

Lou waited till his heart stopped play-
ing skip-rope with his tonsils, then said
falteringly:

‘ ‘After— midnight ? ’ ’

“Yes, dear, without fail this time.”
On which happy note she became silent
and absorbed in the, movie.

Lou’s mind was busily at work.
There was only one thing wrong with
that. It was working in a circle. A
circle that began and ended with Lupe.
He knew he could leave her there
and sneak out. But he also realized the
consequences. No, he had to stick with
her until nightfall. Then he must think
of some way to get rid of her. Per-
manently!

The guy sitting beside Lou decided
it was time to wake up then. He went
through all the motions of a man awak-
ening after an eight-hour sleep in a
movie house seat. After his fifth
stretch and third satisfied groan, he
turned to see who his neighbors were.
He looked at Lou for a second, then
bent forward to see who else was sitting
in their row.

He snapped back to a sitting position
so fast Lou thought it was done with
a spring. A quavery frightened voici
whispered:

“If she’s doing what I think she’s
doing, I wish she’d stop. It’s the first
time I’ve seen anything like this,
sober.”

Lou looked into the man’s frightened
face, then turned to see what Lupe was
doing; and felt the hair at the back of

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

his neck rise up.

Lupe had become so excited at what
was taking place on the screen she had
forgotten for a moment where she was.
She was busily engaged in going through
her transformation act of changing into
a wolf; then back into a woman. She
was doing it so fast Lou got dizzy watch-
ing her. He dug his elbow into her ribs
and said :

“Stop that, before Dracula com-
plains to the management that you’re
crabbing his act.”

She returned to normal and Lou
turned to the guy in the seat beside him.
But he had left. Lou smiled to himself
as he thought:

“Probably gone out to get drunk
again, if that’s what he sees when he’s
sober.”

TT WAS some time during the after-
noon that Lupe awoke Lou by say-
ing:

“Do they have anything to eat here?”
I’m hungry.”

“Sure, tutz,” he answered between
yawns. “I’ll run out and rustle up a few
hamburgers.”

“Hamburgers? What are they?”

Lou explained.

“Well, never mind the bread,” she
said. “Just bring mine — raw.”

It was in the hamburger hut, several
doors from the theater, that Lou found
the answer to what he was going to do
with her. So she wanted a castle. Well,
she was going to get one, all right.

He paid the cashier and walked out.
But instead of going back into the show,
he walked down several doors to where
Harry the Hock had his pawn shop.
Lou was an old victim of Harry’s.

“Look, Harry,” he said to that well-
worn clip-artist, “I’m looking for some-
thing I can wrap around a woman.”

Harry whose love for the opposite sex
was a by- word, said:

“Ah, yes, I have just the thing for
you. Six yards of rope and two pairs
of handcuffs. Absolutely guaranteed
to do a good job. Cheap, too."

“No, no, Harry you don’t get it,” Lou
explained. “I want a robe or a cape.
Something to put over an evening
gown.”

Harry brought out a long cape. Lou
saw that it would fit Lupe. Harry
wanted ten dollars for it. Lou wanted
to give five; and after exchanging a
few pleasantries with each other about
their immediate forebears they parted
company. Harry rang up Lou’s ten
dollars and Lou went back to the show.

He gave the raw meat to Lupe and
they satisfied their appetites for the
next few minutes. He kept hearing
peculiar sounds coming from her and
finally had to say:

“Stop snuffing over your food like
that. People will think they’re at the
zoo.”

Satisfied at last, she put her head on
his shoulders and went to sleep. He
didn’t wait long to follow her example

When he awoke again he looked at his
wrist-watch. The hour hand was on
nine.

“O.K.” beautiful,” he said, shaking
her into wakefulness. “We got to go
places.”

He put the cape over his shoulders
and saw that it was an excellent fit. It
also covered that fish net she was wear-
ing.

“Where do we go now?” she
wanted to know.

He didn’t bother to answer. Instead,
he tucked her arm under his and started
off dowm the street. In a few minutes
they came again to that flop-house
where he had spent the night before.

“What are we doing here?” she
asked.

He wondered why there was a laugh
in her voice. He stopped wondering

WHAT'S IN A NAME

when he tried to open the door. It
wouldn’t ! He stood silent for a second,
scratching his head. The plans he had
made were blown sky-high now. He
had thought to get her back on the bed,
knock her out, tip the suit of armor
over and scram.

The man who had been leaning
against the ‘L’ pillar watching them
walked over.

“Help you, fella?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Lou said. “When’d they
close this joint up?”

“Oh,” the other replied, “about ten
years ago.”

“Ten years ago?” yelped Lou.
“You’re nuts! Why I slept in there
last night.”

“Better take your boy-friend home,
lady. He’s had a little too much,” the
bystander said to Lupe.

Lou felt himself go weak. He had
remembered. Ten years ago and this
flop-house! All he wanted was the
answer to one question.

“Wait just a second, fella,” he
begged. “Just tell me what happened
here ten years ago?”

“Ten years ago,” the other explained,
“a man was found murdered in one of
the rooms. His throat had been torn
open, as though a wolf had gotten at
him.”

OU had his answer.

He wished he hadn’t asked the
question, now. It made everything so
clear. He was Lou P. Geroux and she
was Lupe Geroux, and after midnight
they would both be loupe-garou. Un-
less — she died before then. But how?

Lupe came close to him and said:

“Come! Take me to my castle. ’Tis
of no avail to wait here. And too, I am
getting thirsty.”

“Yeah, I know. Blood-thirsty,”
Lou groaned. “Well, don’t look at me
like that,” he went on “the doctor keeps

telling me I’m anemic. You know. No
muscles in my corpuscles.”

She had been looking at him as
though she had discovered the Fountain
of Youth.

“Please, beautiful,” Lou said hur-
riedly, “can’t you think of anything else
besides your castle and my blood?”

“I can’t help it if I’m thirsty,” she
said petulantly. “And if I can’t get a
drink from you then I’ll go to someone
else.”

“No, wait, baby,” Lou said grinning
broadly.

He knew what he was going to do
now. So she was thirsty and wanted
a castle. He was going to satisfy both
desires.

He looked around for a cab and spot-
ting one signalled to the driver. As
they got in he loudly instructed the
driver to go to “Casey’s Castle, over on
Will Street.”

Casey himself greeted them as they
came through the door.

“Ah, Louie, my frand. How’sa eet
going, keet?”

“Fine, Casey, fine. Got a nice table
for me and the babe here?” Lou said,
edging her past the imposing mound of
Casey’s belly.

“For you, keet, I got da bast," Casey
replied.

“Hey, Murphy,” he called to a little
dark-faced man. “Geeve Louie a table.
And something to dreenk. And breeng
me da beel when hes’a troo. He don’t
add too good.”

Casey called all his waiters Murphy.
It was the only Irish name he could
pronounce.

But Lou had already found a table.
In a dark corner.

Lupe looked about her and said:

“So this is our castle? I had some-
how pictured something different. But
then again, perhaps in your world this
is considered fine.”

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“This ain’t so bad, kid,” Lou assured
her, his gaze wandering around the
crowded room. He was glad to see that
none of his friends was there. Intro-
ducing Lupe to them would have been
too much.

The little, dark, waiter came over
and stood silently waiting for Lou to
order.

“A double-bourbon for the lady,” Lou
said, “and a coke for me.”

“Yes sir. And what kind of chaser?”

“Oh, give her a shot of gin for a
chaser!” Lou answered.

“What is this double-bourbon, you
have ordered for me,” she asked, when
the waiter had left.

“This country’s favorite thirst-
quencher,” he assured her, “and you
are thirsty, you know.”

^HE drinks arrived and she sipped
hers reflectively.

“Not that way,” Lou said. “Like
this,” and he tossed his coke down in
one swallow.

She followed suit, while Lou watched
to see what effect the drink would
have.

She put the glass down, wrinkled her
nose at him and said:

“It’s sort of bitter, but I like it.”

“That’s fine. And now the chaser.”

“The chaser?”

“Yeah. The little glass there.”

“Oh” she said in surprise. “I didn’t
know what you meant. But where’s
yours?”

“I don’t get one, with what I’m drink-
ing. How about another drink, beauti-
ful?” he asked.

“Yes, I think I’ll have another,” she
said.

Lou kept looking furtively at his
watch while they were drinking. He
saw it was already eleven o’clock. His
eyes watched her narrowly to observe
the effects of the liquor. Insofar as he

could see, she was as sober as when
they had come in. And that was no
good. Not at all! She had to get
drunk. Falling-down drunk! Yet here
she was, seemingly sober. And she’d
already had four double-bourbons, with
four gin chasers.

The orchestra had come out and
started the dancing off with a Conga
tune.

Lupe watched the convolutions of the
Conga line which had formed, and
finally asked:

“What are they doing?”

Lou explained. She nodded her
head as though she understood. The
orchestra finished that number and
started into that popular number, Black
Magic.

Lou noticed her fingers were tapping
out the beat on the table top. She
looked up at him coyly and said:

“I’d like to danch too! But lesh
have another bouble-dourbon.” She
shook her head, reprimandingly. “I
meam, durble-burble, first.

A vast smile of joy broke out on
Lou’s face as he heard her stumbling
words. She was getting stiff at last.
He signaled for another drink and after
she downed hers, they went out on
the dance floor.

The orchestra was small but good.
They were playing the song in a slow
rhumba beat, which gave the effect
of jungle rhythm.

Her forehead nestled smoothly
against his chin. She danced surpris-
ingly well; but after a few seconds,
Lou began to wish that she had taken
a closer shave.

“Taken a closer shave?” he thought,
as they moved about in the dance. “I
must be getting drunk on Coca-Cola!
Even if she did shave, that would be
a hell of a place for hair to grow. On
her forehead!”

But now her forehead felt smooth

WHAT'S IN A NAME

again. The orchestra began to play a
faster, wilder tempo; and Lou became
a little lost in the music. Again he felt
that scratchy feeling of rough, coarse
hair against his chin. He was becoming
annoyed by it. He pushed Lupe away
a little and looked more closely at her.
He wished, then, he hadn’t.

^yrtETHER it was the music or the
bourbon that was to blame, he
didn’t know. Nor did he care. He
knew only that she had started to play
again. For his fascinated and horrified
eyes were looking into the reddish eyes
of a wolf. The long triangular head
was only inches removed from his.

A cold sweat broke out all over him,
as he saw the long sharp teeth dripping
saliva and fouling his face with a carnal
odor.

He wasn’t the only one to notice the
change. He had stopped dancing and
a couple bumped into them. The wom-
an turned her head in annoyance and
saw Lou’s partner. She promptly
fainted. Her partner watched her slide
to the floor. Then he looked over at
Lou and Lupe to see what had made her
faint. Lou had to admit the woman had
fainted more gracefully than the man.

Lupe was getting more and more ex-
cited. It became increasingly difficult
to tell with whom he was dancing — a
woman or a wolf. Gradually other
couples on the floor became aware of
what was taking place. And soon Lou
found himself dancing on a deserted
floor.

Someone had told Casey of what was
taking place. He came bustling for-
ward just as the orchestra finished
playing. He was just in time to see
Lupe making her last change, from
wolf to woman. Then Lou dragged
her back to their table.

Lou said disgustedly:

“Can’t you control yourself a little

more? What will people think? As
though you give a damn!”

He looked up to find Casey, his eyes
wide with wonder staring at Lupe.

“I saw eet!” Casey said in awestruck
tones. “What were you doing? Won-
derful ! Marvelous ! Superb ! ”

“What’s wrong with you now?” Lou
demanded. But Casey had eyes and
ears only for Lupe.

“You mus’ come to work for me,”
Casey said to her, “I weel pay you any-
thing you want. Dat is, almost any-
theeng,”

“Yeah, I know,” Lou broke in on
Casey’s ramblings. “Almost anything
but money. Sorry, fat-stuff, the lady
isn’t interested.”

“Don’t say this,” Casey begged.
“What she was doeeng, I have never
see before. People weel come from
everywhere to see her do thees dance.”
“It’s no soap,” Casey,” Lou said
firmly, as he threw the cape around her
shoulders. “The lady isn’t interested
in a dancing career. She has other
plans, haven’t you dear?”

She looked at him and he saw the
fever in her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said softly. She swayed
a little as she talked. “I have some-
thing else to do tonight. And it will
be very shoon now.”

“You’re right,” Lou said as they
walked past the still pleading Casey.
“It won’t be long now.”

The air outside was cool, but Lou
felt as though he were being consumed
by some fever. There was only a quar-
ter-hour left before midnight.

“We’re in the stretch now, beautiful,”
he said as they walked down the dark
street, “and I’m going to show you
our castle,”

She cocked her head to one side as
she said:

“I thought you shaid, that was our
cashle.”

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“Now, tulz,” he answered, “I was
just kidding. Wait’ll you see our castle.
You’ll understand.”

DRUNK reeled past them and
leaned against the wall of a build-
ing. Something about his helpless at-
titude struck a chord in Lupe. Before
Lou knew what had happened, she was
no longer with him. He barely reached
them in time. For she had already
tilted the drunk’s head back and was
about to sink her teeth into his throat
when Lou dragged her away. She
turned savagely on him then, and for
a few seconds he had his hands full with
her.

“Wait,” he panted, as he twisted
away from her hungry mouth, “not yet.
Damn you.” Her teeth had clicked fu-
tily an inch from his throat. “Not here.
Let’s go where we can be comfortable.”

He shook her savagely and she re-
laxed at last.

“Hurry,” she whispered, “the time
will soon be here for us, when we can
slake our thirst. You and I. We will
hunt together, then.”

Almost at a run, he made for his
objective, literally dragging her with
him. They ran up the stairs and he
threw two dimes at the cashier.

The elevated platform was, for once,
almost deserted. Lou had counted on
that. He knew this station was usually
that way at this hour.

“Look,” he said, pointing through the
small glass windows. “There: your
castle!”

She looked to where his finger was
pointing and saw the gleaming white
beauty of the Wrigley Building.

“Aah ! ” her voice came out in a long
drawn sigh, “that is a castle fit for Lupe
Geroux! But why are we here?”

“Because you are thirsty for blood,”
he said, “and this is where you will
find enough.”

He knew that a train pulled into
this station at just this hour. Already
he could see its lights a hundred yards
off.

“Come,” he said, maneuvering her
toward the edge of the platform. “I
want to show you something.”

He stood behind her as she looked
toward the approaching train.

“What is it?” she asked, turning her
head toward him.

He smiled at her. There was no
humor in the smile. His voice was soft,
emotionless :

“Curtains, baby — for you,” and
pushed.

TS E train pulled in with a dull roar.

There was a single loud squeal as
the front trucks ground over her body.
It sounded as though some animal had
cried out in death.

There was a strange smile on Lou P.
Geroux’s face. He had just committed
murder; yet the smile was that of a
man who had been cleansed of some
horrible thing. He was standing there,
his head still bent forward, when he
felt a hand twist him around.

Riley had just gone off duty. Tech-
nically, he was a few minutes early. But
he always left his post a few minutes
early when he had the night watch.
The train coming in now was the one
that took him home. And if he missed
this one, there would be a half-hour wait
for another. Riley didn’t like waiting.

So it was that he saw what had taken
place. He jerked Lou around savagely.

“Got ya!” he cried out in triumph.
“Right in the act.” Then, as Lou
looked at him blankly: “You must be
nuts, to think you could get away with
that ! ”

The ‘L’ platform had been empty a
few moments before. Now it seemed
as though all the people in the Loop had
come up. Lou was almost completely

WHAT'S IN A NAME

surrounded by the curious crowd.

The engineer of the train had left
his cab and now stepped forward.

“I saw him do it, Officer,” he said.
“He waited till I pulled in and then
he shoved her out on the tracks.”

The crowd thrilled in horror.

“Well,” Riley asked, “what have you
got to say before I take you in?”

“Nothing,” Lou said calmly, “except
that I’m glad I did it. Someone had
to do it. She was too great a menace
to be let run around.”

Riley kept a firm grip on the unpro-
testing reporter.

“Think you can back the train up,
so’s we can get to the woman?” he asked
the engineer.

“We might be able to,” the engineer
replied. “The front trucks were the
only ones to hit her.”

He got back into his cab and slowly
began the business of putting the car
into reverse. Only Lou noticed that
a nearby clock began to strike the mid-
night hour.

But when the wheels came free of
what lay beneath them, a gasp of amaze-
ment was wrung from the crowd. Even
Lou started in surprise.

For instead of a woman, a huge, gray
she-wolf lay on the tracks. The wolf
had been decapitated by the car wheels
and Lou saw that a long wooden sliver
from the rail-bed had penetrated its
heart.

“Well I’ll be ” Riley began, as

he looked down at the dead animal.

“Yes, Officer?” Lou asked.

“I’ll sv/ear I saw you push a woman
down there,” Riley said.

“I’m afraid the sergeant wouldn’t
believe you,” Lou reminded him.

Riley scratched his head in perplexi-
ty. Nothing like this had ever hap-
pened to him before. And there was
no use looking in the book of regula-
tions he carried. There was nothing
in there about pushing a wolf off an ‘L’
platform.

“Well,” he said resignedly, “look’s
like I’ll have to let you go.”

“Just a minute, Officer,” Lou said,
stopping him. “Isn’t there a bounty
on killing wolves in this state? And
didn’t you see me struggling with this
wolf, finally pushing it in front of the
train?”

Riley nodded.

“Well,” said Lou, showing his press
pass, “don’t forget to put that in your
report. I could use that hundred dol-
lars very nicely.”

Lou smiled at the retreating figure of
the policeman. His thoughts were pleas-
ant.

“So the editor is going to get his story
and I’m going to get a hundred bucks
and Lupe will no longer be thirsty. It
looks like a perfect ending for this
story!”

But he couldn’t understand why he
suddenly wanted to howl at the moon —
like a wolf.

NEW USE FOR BLOOD PLASMA

A CCORDING to Dr. John B. Johnson, of the
University of Rochester School of Medi-
„ cine, one patient that had been totally dis-
abled by hemophilia was able to again do light
work after being given weekly injections of 125 cc.
of plasma.

The great demand for plasma by the armed
forces has prevented Dr. Johnson from giving
regular injections to all of his patients but he con-
siders the plasma treatment for incipient hemor-
rhages as the most feasible plan yet attempted to

put victims of the dread hemophilia back on their
feet.

Since the purpose of transfusions is to intro-
duce into the patient’s blood stream something
that will hasten the dotting time when the pa-
tient is injured, plasma, which is equal to whole
blood in clotting ability, can be used. In addi-
tion, plasma is superior to whole blood, since it
does away with the typing operation that con-
sumes valuable time in which the patient may
even bleed to death.

Ghosts can be a definite asset/
Kerwin discovered/ if you can find
a way to persuade them to cooperate

Kerwin whirled back in time to see
a hand holding out a bit of paper

I T WAS one of those balmy late New
England spring days and every-
thing along the country-side was
fresh and verdant and pretty wonder-
ful. We had been about four hours on
the road from New York — four hours

away from the stink of carbon monox-
ide, the scream of traffic and the hun-
dred million other nerve-shattering nui-
sances that people call life in the big
city.

I filled my lungs with fresh New

England air.

“What a couple of fools we were,”

I told Lynn.

She didn’t answer. She was looking
somewhat stonily at the crouching
chrome nymph atop the hood of our low

slung convertible.

This didn’t faze me. Lynn was going
to take a lot of selling on this idea, and
the battles we had had over it in the
past month were unrivalled on any list
in the War Atlas.

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

I turned my attention back to the
road.

It had been almost a month to the
day when I told Lynn that I was
through with the job I’d been holding
down in her father’s brokerage house
—was through with the stupid, smug,
money-counting monotony of the life I
had been leading.

Naturally she thought I was kidding.

“That’s very funny, Tommy,” Lynn
had smiled, “and I suppose it’s prompt-
ed by a chance encounter with one of
your friends from your Bohemian and
collegiate periods.”

“I’ll ignore that remark,” I told her
pleasantly enough, “and try to make my
point more clear. I’m through, finished,
washed-up with this washed-out parody
of a life I’ve been living. When we mar-
ried two years ago you persuaded me
to step into your father’s firm just long
enough to pile up a nest egg to tide me
over for a year working on that book in
my system.”

A knowing look had come into Lynn’s
eyes. Her voice suddenly took on a too
sweetly humoring tone.

“Now, Tommy,” she began, “haven’t
we gone over this ground before?”

“Yes indeed,” I agreed.

“Then it is really very silly, isn’t it,
to go into the matter again when we’ve
both agreed ”

I cut her off. “We’ve never agreed on
anything concerning this issue, Lynn,
and you know it. The last time 1
brought it up was over six months ago.
You pointed out, at the time, that it was
ridiculous to consider the matter since
we hadn’t nearly enough put away to
tide us over the year of my big effort.”

“And the situation isn’t altered a bit
since that time, Tommy,” Lynn said.
“You’ve still got to face the same cold
facts. We’re quite able to live comfort-
ably and with a reasonable metropolitan
decency on your salary. But it just hap-

pens that we can never get a cent put
aside in the bank. What do you expect
us to live on while you’re off in some
deep forest for a year banging away
at a typewriter?”

I smiled.

“I’ll ignore the forest remark, since
you know damned well that all I had in
mind was a place in New England —
something with peace and quiet and
serenity.”

Lynn cut me off.

“Well, forest, farm, or houseboat, we
still just wouldn’t be able to manage it.”

I held up my hand, grinning like a
cat picking canary feathers from its
front teeth.

“But that, my pet, is precisely where
you are in error. We have just enough
to take care of the matter comfortably.”

j^YNN almost lost her lovely white
teeth in surprise. And while she was
doing a double take, I continued to
smirk.

“Wha — , what on earth are you talk-
ing about?” she spluttered.

“I am merely announcing the fact
that I have at present in a private bank
account some four thousand dollars,
gained within the last three months on
modest stock speculations of my own.
And that, takes care of that.”

It had.

Not as simply as that of course. My
announcement had been merely the
opening gun in a month-long siege. Lynn
used every device known to the wiles
of women in an effort to shake me from
my purpose. She sulked, she cajoled, she
pleaded, she shrilled, and, of course,
wept profusely. But I went right along
my merry way visiting real estate
brokers, renting agents and resort pro-
prietors in my search for a suitable
Shang-ri-la.

When, at the end of three weeks, I’d
picked the site of my great adventure,

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

I announced the fact to Lynn. That was
the signal for her to rush the reserves
into the fray — said reserves being her
father — also my employer — her mother,
and her somewhat neurotic sister, Kath-
erine.

I had expected this. I was all set to
trump her ace in the hole. All it took
was dogged, solid refusal all around.
Old Oliver Jerem, my dear father-in-
law, acted about as could be expected.
He warned me against my folly from
each of his dual roles.

“This is quite preposterous, Thom-
as,” he boomed. “Absolutely unheard
of. The thought of Lynn becoming
some— some farmhand is absolutely
ridiculous. She would be utterly miser-
able under any such circumstances. She
has been raised for something quite a
lot better than what you are planning to
force her into.”

“Undoubtedly you raised her,” I
agreed amiably enough. “And undoubt-
edly it must have been some job. But
whether or not you raised her, I mar-
ried her. She is my wife. I think that
establishes my viewpoint clearly
enough.”

Then, of course, the old boy had tak-
en another tack. He brought in, but
heavily, his second role — that of my
employer.

“Is it that you are dissatisfied with
your position in our firm, Thomas? If
that’s the case, young man, let me as-
sure you that the board of directors and
I have been giving considerable atten-
tion to your progress of late. We feel
that you’re just ready for a big step up-
ward. There isn’t a young man on Wall
Street who wouldn’t give a million dol-
lars for a chance such as yours. Any
idiocy on your point in your career
would be disastrous. I’d never be able
to explain it to the board, and this great
chance would undoubtedly be lost you
forever.”

“If you must explain it to the board,”
I told him, “you might say that I have
never enjoyed working with or for them
in their marts of money, nor had ever
any intention of making a lifetime job
of wearing their harness. I am a writer.
Or at least I think I am, enough to take
a whack at trying to prove it. If it turns
out that I’m a dud, well, perhaps I’ll
slide meekly back into whatever niche
they can make for me. But I don’t think
it’s going to turn out that way. Now, do
you think that would be sufficient ex-
planation?”

j^YNN’S mother tried her hand at
that point.

“But, Tommy, it is so utterly insane.
If you really want to write I am sure
Oliver could make some connections
with some solid, sensible, financial jour-
nals that would be only too glad to have
you contribute articles to them now and
then.”

I didn’t have any trouble at all
squelching her brief, futile, and some-
what hysterical two-cents worth.

“In which case,” I smiled sweetly,
“I’d undoubtedly wind up turning out
all my copy on an adding machine in-
stead of a typewriter. I’m afraid you
didn’t get the idea at all. I want to
write; not bore a lot of bumble-headed
business big-shots into a stupor.”

Lynn’s neurotic sister, Katherine,
had strangely enough kept out of it.
And I looked expectantly to her for a
few well-chosen words on my future.
She didn’t have any, but the snide
glances she and her tailor’s dummy hus-
band, Walter, exchanged, seemed just a
little too secretive to suit me.

I looked around the family circle then
to Lynn.

“It’s been so nice to have had this
little talk, and even better still to clear
the air. Now I think we’d better be
going. There is so much to be done in

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

tying up the loose ends of our past life,
that we’ll have to do a lot of rushing if
we are going to be able to move into the
little New England place I have picked
out on the day I’ve arranged for.”

That had been the climax — but not
entirely the end of the matter. Lynn
had with a great deal of martyrdom
helped a bit in tying up some of the
loose ends. There was our little too-ex-
pensive apartment in Manhattan to be
gotten rid of, a matter of storage for
much of our gilt-edged furnishings, and
my solemnly worded resignation from
Jerem and Jeffers, Investment Brokers,
Inc., and the usual last minute extrania
which crop up to plague any such de-
parture.

But at last we were on our way — and
this was it.

Lynn still was carrying a shield of
martyrdom and a considerable amount
of hostility. But she was with me, be-
side me in fact, and we were now ap-
proximately two miles from Chatam,
the sleepy, pleasant little New England
village beyond which lay our new home.

Waiting for us in Chatham would be
a short, thin-featured, nasal-voiced
realty dealer named, appropriately
enough, Abner Land. He was a repre-
sentative of the New York firm through
which I had located the comfortable,
cleverly modernized New England
farmhouse in which we would make our
stay. Land had the lease ready to be
signed, sealed and turned over. In his
possession too, were the keys and in-
formation concerning the handywoman
and cook I had engaged to make Lynn’s
martyred lot somewhat less vulnerable
to squawks.

TT WAS Friday and scarcely noon.

Lynn and I had managed to get an
early start, and I had figured this to be
a particularly bright idea inasmuch as
it would be better for Lynn’s first sight

of the place to occur in the bright sun-
shine of such an ultra-pleasant sunny
afternoon.

The place I had rented was really
quite a find and, frankly, I was damned
well pleased with myself. It was a two-
story, eight-roomed affair that had only
last summer been done over completely
on the specifications of a well-known
architect who had taken a fancy to the
place, bought it, done the remodeling,
and for some zany and temperamental
reason stayed there only a couple of
weeks. It hadn’t been occupied since,
but was — thanks to the directions of the
New York realty firm — now awaiting us
in perfectly ship-shape condition.

I had no delusions that Lynn’s first
glimpse of the house was going to be all
that would be necessary to change her
from blackness and rebellion to sweet-
ness and light. But certainly she’d be
forced into a grudging sort of liking for
the place, and some of the ice at pres-
ent encrusting her attitude would be
thawed. The additional melting — which
would of course take a little bit more
time — would be up to me. And I was
determined to carry through a concerted
softening and selling campaign that
would eventually have her chirping with
a robin-like delight at our new life in
our new surroundings.

Lynn suddenly said: “How much
farther on is Chatam?”

“A few minutes more, baby,” I told
her. “You’ll really get a kick out of the
little village. It’s hard to find anything
there that’s changed since the days of
Ichabod Crane. Characters are strictly
Yankee, strictly rustic, strictly nice
people. It’ll take a little time for us to
get on really friendly terms with them,
since they aren’t the sort to accept
strangers — particularly big city strang-
ers — with pop-eyed joy.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it,” Lynn said
icily. “Perhaps I’ll be able to go to tat-

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

ting circles with the women of the ves-
per society, and you’ll be making
speeches in the town hall, in no time at
all. I can scarcely wait.”

I sighed, turned my attention back
to the road. We were coming to the top
of a high hill now, and in the little valley
below and beyond it lay the village of
Chatam. . . .

TT wasn’t hard to find the office of Ab-
ner Land. It was smack in the cen-
ter of the village, right on the main
street. He was locking the front door of
his place as we pulled up in front of it.
“Hello, there!” I yelled.

He turned, saw the roadster, turned
back and opened his office door again.

“How’j’do?” he yelled back nasally.
“Was jest going out fer some lunch.”
“Come on, baby,” I told Lynn, climb-
ing out of the car. “I’d like to have you
meet Mr. Land.”

“I’d rather wait here in the car,”
Lynn said frigidly.

“Sure,” I grinned. “Sop up some sun-
shine. I’ll only be a minute.”

“Made good time,” Abner Land ob-
served, as I followed him into his musty
little office. “Didn’t expect you’d be
here till a few hours later.”

“We got an early start. Lease all
ready to sign?”

Abner Land got out the lease.

“Sure is,” he said. “Year’s payment
in advance, special rate of nine hun-
dred and thirty-two dollars, in full.”

I handed him the certified check I’d
had made out for that amount, signed
the necessary papers including the lease,
and he turned over the keys to me.

“How about the cook and handy-
woman?” I asked. “Been able to find
one for us?”

“She’ll be out there sometime this
afternoon,” Land said.

“That’s fine,” I told him. “Then
there’s nothing else to take care of.”

“Good woman, too” said Abner Land.
“Her name’s Marthy, Marthy Sping-
ler.”

“Huh? I mean, oh — yes, I see. You
mean the cook and handywoman,” I
said. “Of course. Martha Spingler.
Fine We’ll he expecting her in time to
prepare the dinner.”

“Place been all cleaned up, shiny
new,” Abner Land said. “Everything
you’ll need, excepting fodder, will be
on hand.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Land,” I said, tak-
ing his skinny hand and pumping it en-
thusiastically. “I’m sure everything is
going to be just dandy.”

Abner Land gave me a grin that I
didn’t remember as being somewhat pe-
culiar until later.

“Might be at that,” he conceded.

QUTSIDE, I started up the car again
and turned to grin at Lynn.

“We’re all set, honey,” I told her.
“Lease and keys are in my pocket and
the world is in our arms. The future is
bright and shining, and our cook will
be out in time to prepare dinner to-
night.”

Lynn permitted herself to enter the
conversation slightly.

“Let me see the lease,” she said. “It
might be a good thing if it were looked
over carefully. After all, if we should
decide that we didn’t want to stay on,
we wouldn’t want to be committed to
some ghastly bargain. I understand
these Yankee traders are sharp.”

I decided to pass over her crack about
our deciding that we didn’t want to stay
on. I took the lease out of my pocket
and gave it to her.

We drove along in silence, leaving the
little village of Chatam and starting
westward in the direction of our new
place. Lynn maintained the silent status
quo, and from the corner of my eye I
could see her frowningly trying to make

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

something from the whereofs and
whereases in the fine print.

After a little while, Lynn looked up.

“Tom,” she said puzzledly, “it says
here that, quote, 'the party of the first
part is’ . . . Never mind, skip it.”

“Sure,” I said, grinning inwardly.
Lynn knew as much about such mat-
ters as a child, but she wasn’t going to
pass up an opportunity to pretend dif-
ferently.

I found the turn fork I was looking
for, and we went off along a gravel road-
way which — if it proved to be the right
one — would bring us to our destination
in another fifteen minutes.

“Tom! ” Lynn said suddenly and very
sharply.

I turned. “What now?”

“It says something here that I don’t
quite understand,” she said. “It says
something about nine hundred and
thirty-two dollars for the year, paid in
advance, as per agreement. What does
that mean?”

“Exactly what it says,” I told her.
“I got the place for a song, merely by
paying up one year in advance, rather
than a month at a time. Isn’t that
clear?”

The expression on Lynn’s face was
peculiar.

“But a year,” she wailed, “in ad-
vance. If we should decide to leave, to
go back to New York. I mean — if we
should find something wrong and decide
to get out.”

I stopped the car abruptly and
turned to face my wife.

“Now look, Lynn,” I said quietly.
“You know that I decided on a year’s
fling at the typewriter. Not six months
or eight months or ten, but a year. This
is the place I picked out. This is where
we’ve planned to spend that year. You
knew all that, so what reason can you
possibly have for objecting to my pick-
ing up a bargain price by paying a year

in advance?”

Lynn didn’t answer immediately.
She pursed her pretty Tips and frowned
darkly. Then she said:

“But a year seems so final, so posi-
tive.”

“The decision I made is final, is posi-
tive,” I reminded her. “I’m not em-
barking on some gay twenty-day lark,
baby. I’ve quit my job with your dad’s
firm, we’ve stored our furniture, given
up the apartment, and all in all made a
clean, definite break.”

~|~ ^YNN didn’t answer. She just turned
and stared out the window. I put
the car into gear and we started off
again. Fifteen minuate later, on the
other side of a sharp, tree-banked bend
in the road, we came upon our new
house.

“This, my love, is it,” I told Lynn.
“Look once and look again. Isn’t it a
beauty?”

The place did look swell. It had a
fresh paint job, and some clever new
landscaping, and was bright and spic
and welcoming. I felt enormously
pleased with myself, and glanced at
Lynn to catch her reaction.

She was obviously surprised. Un-
doubtedly she had expected to be
brought out to some gaunt, gray barn
in a dismal forest, and this was a mil-
lion miles in the opposite direction for
any such gloomy forebodings.

Yes, indeed, surprise was certainly
all over her face. But she was deter-
mined not to admit it vocally.

“It looks nice enough,” Lynn said
without any particular display of
cheerleading enthusiasm.

I got a good firm grip on my temper,
remembering my plans to soothe and
sell her into an adjustment to it all.
There was no sense in having our very
entrance into the place marred by a
wrangling battle.

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

“That’s good,” I said as cheerfully
as a realty agent. “That’s just fine. I’m
awfully glad you like it, Lynn. You
don’t know how hard I tried to pick a
place that would appeal to you.”

Which was the truth. I knew Lynn’s
tastes backward and forward, and I
had done my level best to find some-
thing which would please her eventual-
ly, if not immediately.

Lynn got out as we pulled to a stop
in the drive in front of the place. I
removed the luggage, got back in, and
wheeled the convertible around into the
garage at the east side of the house.

When I got back from the garage,
Lynn was standing beside the luggage
on the flagstone walk, staring medita-
tively at the house. I grabbed up the
luggage, and took a deep, gymnasium
instructor’s breath.

“Ahhhh!” I exhaled. “This is the life
— and this is the place to live it! Right,
baby?”

Lynn didn’t answer that one. She
just walked along beside me in silence
as we went up the walk. . . .

m ost of our luggage had been un-
packed, and clothes placed in or-
der, and the eight rooms of the place
inspected one by one inside of the first
two hours. Then Lynn and I settled
down in the big, roomy cheerfulness of
the remodeled parlor, and I tried to
get a blaze going in the fireplace.

Lynn was deep in a book she’d started
back in town, and didn’t look up from
it until the first traces of smoke began
to seep grayishly back into the living
room.

“What on earth are you doing?”
she demanded.

I told her that I thought I was mak-
ing a fire. She told me why didn’t I
go ahead and make one, then, instead
of filling the place with smoke that was
enough to choke a person.

I managed to keep my temper, and
continued at my fire-making chores,
gathering more and more wood from
the basket beside the hearth and stuff-
ing loose newspaper pages and innum-
erable matches into the smoking dis-
order.

The fumes from my efforts began to
get a little worse.

Lynn started to cough. I gave her
a quick glance and saw that I was be-
ing glared at — but good. The smoke
was beginning to fill my eyes and ears
and nose, and none of it seemed to
want to go up the chimney the way
well-trained smoke does.

“Good heavens!” Lynn cried exas-
peratedly. “Let me fix that thing.”

She got up and stamped angrily over
beside me. She bent over, leaned for-
ward, and reached up and into the fire-
place. There was a sharp noise of
something iron being pulled open, and
when Lynn sat back on her heels, the
smoke was suddenly well-behaved and
coursing upward through the chimney.

“You might have had sense enough
to open the vent,” she told me. “Oddly
enough, it’s often a great help to a fire-
place.”

I didn’t say anything to that. After
all, there wasn’t anything that could be
said. I left the fireplace and the living
room and went back into the kitchen
to prowl through the larders and see
what would be needed in the way of
supplies and foodstuffs.

I had almost completed my list -when
Lynn came out. She asked me what I
was doing and I told her.

“I can drive into town and buy the
stuff,” I said. “I don’t imagine we can
expect our cook to bring tonight’s din-
ner along with her.”

Lynn nodded abstractedly.

“You might try to pick up a nice-
sized turkey, Tom,” she said suddenly,
“for tomorrow night’s dinner.”

FANTASTIC ADVENTU RES

I nodded happily, glad that she was
beginning to pitch in with suggestions.

“How many pounds?”

“I think fifteen would be fine,” Lynn
said.

“Fifteen? That’s a lot of bird for
two people, baby.”

Lynn’s eyebrows raised in innocent
— too innocent — surprise.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you, Tom? I
asked Mother and Father and Kath-
erine and Walter out for sort of a
housewarming. They’ll arrive late to-
morrow and leave early sometime Sun-
day morning.”

Of course she hadn’t told me. And
of course she had deliberately waited
until now T to do so. It was suspicious,
damned suspicious, and I didn’t like
the sound of it a bit. But I was try-
ing to smooth Lynn’s feathers and there
was no reasonable objection I could
make against their coming.

So I said: “No, Lynn. You didn’t
tell me about it. But that’s fine. That’s
just fine. IT like to have them see the
place.”

“So,” said Lynn ambiguously, “would

I.”

QN THE WAY into the village for
groceries, I did a considerable
amount of thinking about the guest de-
luge that would descend on us the fol-
lowing afternoon. Obviously, it was an
inspection trip of sorts, and, just as ob-
viously, there was more behind it than
immediately met my eye. My adver-
saries had not retired in complete con-
fusion, apparently, and the victory I
thought I had scored seemed now to
have been something less than a rout.

Maybe old Oliver Jerem, Lynn’s
papa and my ex-boss, was going to bring
along a few cards he had forgotten to
play in our original argument. Maybe
he was going to do something idiotic
like refusing to accept my resignation.

It was hard to say what the shrewd-
minded old financial bandit had under
his handsome white head.

I wondered if the idea for the visit
had been Lynn’s or her family’s, and
decided it had probably been the lat-
ter’s. While she was near them, Lynn’s
family managed to hoodwink her into
anything they wanted. They always did
so cleverly, playing on her love for them
and their deep affection for her. This
fact, of course, had been one of the flies
in our marital ointment ever since we’d
walked out of the church into a shower
of rice.

It had been the clever manipulations
of Lynn’s family that had forced me
into taking that job with her father’s
firm immediately on our return from our
honeymoon. I hadn’t intended to do
anything of the sort, of course. It had
been my plan to use the several thous-
and I had in the bank at the time to
purchase a cabin in the Catskills and get
to work on my novel.

But Lynn’s family had persuaded her
that they were thinking only in terms
of our mutual good when they suggested
that a nice job awaited me in Jerem
and Jeffers brokerage house.

“Just for a bit, dear,” they’d told
Lynn, “until Tommy has saved enough
to carry out his plans handsomely.”

I had been trapped into taking the
job.

The salary had been good enough,
and normal living would have enabled
us to save enough in a year— combined
with the two grand I had in the bank —
to enable me to go through with my
delayed plans in super style. But some-
how we weren’t able to save a damned
nickel; and in less than six months,
I had gone through the two thousand
as well. Lynn’s family had been in-
strumental in this removal of my claws.
The merry-go-round of night life and
parties and week-ends at swank coun-

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

try clubs on which we rode kept us
broke, and was forced upon us by the
shrewd Papa Oliver Jerem, et al. They
knew, of course, that dough would
make me independent, and that with
such independence I might do any crazy
thing that came into my head — like
quitting my much-loathed job and
starting my chosen career. So it was
seen to that we always had just enough
dough to keep up the pace imposed upon
us, and never enough to put any away.

It took me almost a year and a half
to discover their system, and at the
end of that time I started getting a
little smart for myself. I watched and
waited until a chance came along, and
put five hundred bucks on the nose of
some stock shares. They came across
the line winners, and I had outfoxed the
entire Jerem family for good.

TRUCK, rolling heavily along the
highway and holding close to the
centerline, made me drop my mental
rehashing and concentrate on getting
out of its way.

Three minutes later I was in Chatam.

The characters lolling around the
local grocery store, which was actually
a general store, looked like something
out of Floyd Davis illustrations. Yes-
siree.

The grocer, or storekeeper, to be
more exact, was a lean, long, hawk-
nosed New Englander with a Yankee
twang that sounded like piano strings
breaking.

“Yessiree,” he said. “What can I
do fer you.”

I got out the grocery list and handed
it to him.

“I’d like everything you have that’s
on this list,” I said.

He scanned the list and looked up at
me interestedly.

“Heap of grub,” he said.

I agreed that it was.

“You must be the feller moving in
tuh the remodeled place off Kingston
Road, eh?”

“That’s right,” I said. “It’s certainly
a lovely house.”

“Oh, I wun’t deny that it’s attractive
tuh look at,” he admitted, turning away
to get the first of the stuff on the list.
There was something grudging, some-
thing odd in the way the storekeeper
had said that. He came back with a
dozen bars of soap, and I asked him:

“What did you mean when you em-
phasized the to look at?”

The Yankee looked up, putting a stub
of pencil behind his ear.

“Did I emphasize that that way?” he
asked innocently.

“That’s the way I heard it,” I told
him.

“Wal, now,” he twanged. “Mebbe
I was a mite careless in my speech. Fer-
get it.” He turned back to the list,
scanned it, and walked off to get more
supplies.

I was getting impatient. When he
came back again, I asked:

“Listen, is there something wrong
with the house I rented? Does it have
leaks or landslides or earthquakes or
something? After all, if there’s some-
thing out of the way about it, I ought
to find out now. I’ve paid up a year’s
rental in advance on it, you know.”

The storekeeper looked at me sharp-
ly-

“Did Abner Land sign you up tuh a
year’s lease, rent paid in advance?” he
demanded.

“That’s right,” I said. “I paid him
just a few hours ago.”

My Yankee friend broke into cack-
ling laughter.

“Wal, I never!” he exclaimed.
“That’s a hot’un, all right. That’s rich.”
He cackled some more. He’s a sharp’un,
that Abner Land. Slick dealing, all
right!”

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

I was getting a little alarmed and a
little frantic.

“Listen,” I broke in on my store-
keeping informer’s happy cackling.
“Will you tell me why you think my
signing a lease on that place and sign-
ing for it in advance is so hilarious?”

The Yankee storekeeper stopped
laughing.

“Why, stranger,” he said “I don’t see
why not. The place is a plumb white
eleefant. It’s jinxed, that’s what. That
there architect feller who remodeled it
from an old broken down deserted farm-
house only stayed there ten days afore
he left and never come back.”

“But what’s wrong with it?” I de-
manded.

The storekeeper went back to my
shopping list, taking his stub pencil
from behind his ear. He looked up long
enough to remark casually:

“Everything.”

I was getting sore. I leaned across
the counter and tapped him on the
chest.

“Look, friend,” I said. “You started
this. Will you please conclude it co-
herently? What in the hell is the mat-
ter with the place I’ve rented — speci-
fically?”

r pHE storekeeper gave me a glance,
turned away to grab a paper bag,
snap it open, and bend over the egg
case behind the counter. He didn’t an-
swer until he’d filled the bag with two
dozen eggs. Then he straightened up
and said :

“Hants.”

I blinked.

“Hants? What do you mean by — oh,
I get it. You mean haunts?”

“That’s right. Hants. That’s what’s
wrong.”

The wave of relief that swept over me
was wonderful. I looked at the lean,
dour-faced Yankee storekeeper toler-

antly. He was considerably more rustic
that I had imagined.

“Well, well,” I grinned. “So the place
is haunted.”

“Yup.”

“That’s very funny,” I laughed.

“That all depends,” said the Yan-
kee.

“Depends on what?”

“Your sense of humor,” he said.

I gave him an amused smile. He
shrugged, picked up the grocery list
and walked to the back of the store
to complete the rest of it. When he
finally returned, arms full of pack-
ages, he put them on the counter with
the rest, and said:

“That’ll be eight dollars and twen-
ty-two cents."

I got out my wallet.

“I suppose there’s a legend that goes
with the so-called haunted house I’ve
rented?” I asked dryly.

He took the ten dollar bill I handed
him and went over to an early vintage
cash register to ring up the sale. He
returned with a dollar and seventy-
eight cents.

“Eight twenty-two, eight twenty-
five, eight seventy-five, nine dollars,
ten dollars,” he said putting the change
in my hand. “Thank you, mister. You
need some help carrying these out tuh
yer car?”

I looked at the packages.

“No, thanks,” I said. “I think I can
manage okay.”

He helped by piling the stuff into
my arms.

“Careful of them eggs,” he said.
“They’re pretty close tuh the top.”

He came around the counter and
stepped ahead of me to hold the door
open. I took the packages out to the
convertible and dumped them in the
front seat beside me.

I was starting the car before I re-
alized that my rustic Yankee store-

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

keeper hadn’t answered my last ques-
tion. He hadn’t told me if there was a
legend to go with the ridiculous local
opinion that the house was “hanted.”

I put the car in gear, and mentally
decided to make a note to check into
the quaint superstition on my next trip
to town. It would be interesting to
hear, even though undoubtedly pretty
much standardized according to the
usual legends of its sort.

It occurred to me while driving back
to the village that the grocery-general
store anecdote would be an amusing
thing to relate in detail to Lynn, a hu-
morqus touch to help unfreeze her icy
attitude.

And it occurred to me less than a
split second later that it would be the
last thing on earth to tell her, for the
very thought that there was something
off-key about our new home would be
all she’d need. Lynn was a modern
somewhat intelligent girl, and definitely
not given to superstitions. But, of
course, she was a woman. Reason is not
the prime motivating factor in any ac-
tion of a member of that sex.

So I decided to forget the incident
as far as Lynn was concerned, and I
thanked my private gods that she hadn’t
heard it first.

There was considerably more to
think of, anyway. Things such as the
matter of the new cook, the settling
down, the starting of my novel and,
most important at the moment, the
week-end visit by Lynn’s relatives. I’d
have plenty to keep me busy for a bit,
without beginning to seep myself in
local native folklore.

J TURNED off Kingston Road and

onto the gravel roadway leading to
our place some fifteen minutes later,
and by that time I was deep in the re-
alization that I had forgotten to get in
a supply of liquor, and also forgotten to

get the turkey Lynn wanted for the fol-
lowing night’s meal. Shrugging them off
as best I could, I decided to let both
problems ride over until the following
day.

Lynn met me at the door after I’d
parked the car in the garage.

“The cook has come,” she announced.

“Fine,” I beamed. “That’s great.
Like her?”

Lynn followed me into the front
room.

“She hasn’t cooked anything yet.
How can I tell?” she said.

I felt properly rebuffed. I encoun-
tered the cook when I marched into the
kitchen to dump the load of groceries
in my arms. She was a big-boned, tall
and angular woman, not especially easy
on the most unparticular eyes, and
she was busy at the moment polishing
the sink.

She looked up at me challengingly.

“Hello,” she said. Then, indicating
the kitchen table with the end of the
small scrub brush in her hand, she said:
“Put them there.”

I put them there, while the cook’s
eyes watched the depositing critically.
When I had unburdened myself I
turned to face her somewhat uneasily.

“I’m Mr. Kelvin,” I began.
“I’ m ”

She cut me off.

“I got eyes,” she reminded me. “You
sure don’t look like no grocery boy.”

The sentence might have had some
flattering salvation if she hadn’t made
it sound as though grocery boys were
number one on her hit parade.

“And you are Martha Spingler, is
that correct?” I asked, wincing at the
rebuff.

“Mrs. Spingler,” she corrected me.
“My first name is Marthy, all right.
But people don’t use it less’n they
know me a spell longer than you have.”

“I’m glad to know you Mrs. Sping-

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

ler,” I murmured, backing a hasty re-
treat from the kitchen. “There are
some — uh — groceries. See if you can
whip up an evening meal from them.
Anything that might be missing on that
list — uh — just order on your own
hook.”

I went back into the living room.
Lynn had taken an armchair close to
the fireplace and had her nose buried in
that book. I didn’t feel particularly
like an icebreaker at the moment, so I
said:

“Did Martha take the bags upstairs,
baby?”

Lynn raised one eye from the page.

“I took them up.”

“Oh. Oh. That’s swell. Thanks,
baby. You shouldn’t have done it. I
— ah — was going to when I got back
from the village.”

Lynn didn’t say anything to that.
Her attention went back to the book.
I went into the front hallway and re-
moved my coat, hat and gloves.

^JpHEN I decided to go upstairs and
unpack the several small suitcases
which Lynn had taken up to our room.
The bigger part of the luggage had, of
course, been moved up there by yours
truly on our arrival that afternoon.
The stuff Lynn had taken up amounted
to four or five bags of overnight size.
However, I knew that in her mind she
had now firmly established the notion
that she’d done all the baggage work
unaided.

My week-end grip and overnight case
were on the big four-poster bed in our
room when I got up there. They lay
open, and much of my stuff had been
strewn this way and that across the
bedcover.

I was a little bit surprised. If Lynn
had started to unpack for me there
would have been some pattern of order
to the scene. You didn’t unpack a

bag by ransacking it as thoroughly as
my bags had been.

“She’s getting nice and spiteful, also,”
I reasoned. “It’s a wonder my shirts
and ties and stockings haven’t been
knotted into granite-like lumps.”

It struck me at that moment that —
had Lynn been spiteful, or trying to
be — she would most certainly have done
more than muss up the contents of my
luggage, and probably would have done
some knotting of neckwear and shirt
arms.

I frowned, stepped out of the room
and walked over to the staircase. I
leaned over the bannister and yelled
down:

“Lynn, oh Lynn!”

“Yes?” her voice came faintly and
in annoyance from the living room.

“Did you open my luggage?”

“Of course I didn’t,” her voice
snapped, considerably more loud this
time.

“I just wondered,” I muttered. Then:
“I just wondered,” I yelled.

I went back into the bedroom and
stared at the messily opened bags on
the bed. Suddenly I thought of Mrs.
Spingler, the cook. Her room was down
at the end of the hallway.

Stepping out of the bedroom again,
I moved somewhat stealthily down to
the door at the far end where Mrs.
Spingler was to be quartered. In the
back of my mind was the idea that
suspicion would be pointed at the dour
cook if her luggage had already arrived
and was in her room— inasmuch as that
would point to the fact that she had
already been prowling about upstairs
with sufficient opportunity to get into
our bedroom and mess up my luggage.

I’d soft-shoed less that three yards
when I realized what an asinine idea
that was.

If Mrs. Spingler were the malicious
sort, she wouldn’t take spite out on a

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

total stranger. And if she were dishon-
est, a professional servant-crook, for
example, she would work for us a week
or more until she had thoroughly cased
the place and decided on what she
wanted to run off with. I straightened
up out of my crouch and walked back
into the bedroom, feeling like a foolish
Sherlock Holmes.

Back in the bedroom I sat down and
stared gloomily at the opened luggage
atop the bed.

Lynn had said that she hadn’t opened
the luggage. I knew I hadn’t opened it.
And it was silly to suppose the cook,
Mrs. Spingler, could have had anything
to do with it."

All right. That was fine. That left
only one thing to figure out. Who in
the hell did do it?

I fished around for a cigarette, found
one in my vest pocket, badly crumpled,
smoothed it out and lighted it.

T TURNED my attention to the bed
again, and in another minute I was
overcome once more by a Sherlock com-
plex. I got up and went over to the
bed and looked more closely at the dis-
ordered mess of shirts, socks, ties, hand-
kerchiefs, and so forth.

If any clues as to the culprit who
had put the stuff into that condition
were in evidence, I missed them com-
pletely. I went over to the window,
tested it, found it locked.

Then I thought to look in the closet.

It was disappointingly barren of cul-
prits, fairly well stocked with Lynn’s
dresses and my suits. I slammed the
closet door shut disgustedly and went
back to the chair by the window and sat
down.

I told myself that I was making a
mountain out of a molehill and an un-
holy ass out of Thomas Kelvin.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered sud-
denly, getting up. “The locks on both

bags undoubtedly snapped open sud-
denly as Lynn tossed them on the bed.
They probably spilled most of my stuff
out on the bed as they sprang open.
That’s the only reasonable explanation
— even if they were both locked the last
time I saw them.”

I was turning away from the window
when I saw the small Ford truck com-
ing up the drive. Lettered on its side
was:

“Chatam Electrical Company. Uriah
Epply.”

The truck stopped in front of the
walk, and a small, bald-headed, leather-
jacketed, roly-poly chap climbed out.
He had a coil of electrical wire in one
hand and a tool bag in the other.

I watched him start up the walk, stop,
turn around and go back to get some-
thing else.

I left the window and went down-
stairs. Lynn was still in the living room,
reading in the armchair near the fire-
place. She looked up as I entered.

“What were you doing thumping
around up in the attic?” she demanded.

I blinked at her.

“Thumping around up in the attic?”
I echoed puzzledly.

“Not thumping, perhaps,” Lynn said,
“but dragging things around up there,
anyway.” She glanced at the fireplace,
“The sound from the attic carries
down through the fireplace here. It was
very plain.”

I opened my mouth to answer, then
thought a minute. The bedroom I had
just left was in the south end of the
house, not near the attic. The living
room was in the north end, and above it
two guest bedrooms, and above those,
the small attic. What Lynn had said
was possible. That is, sounds from the
attic, through which the chimney ran,
might conceivably come down into the
living room.

But I hadn’t been in the attic.

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“What were you doing up there?”
Lynn repeated.

I gagged a moment.

“Oh, nothing much,” I gulped.
“Nothing at all, really.”

The front doorbell rang, at that mo-
ment, cutting off the next question that
undoubtedly would have followed
Lynn’s sharply puzzled look.

“I’ll answer it,” I said hastily.

\yHENI opened the door the little
bald fat man from the electrical
truck stood there grinning amicably.
He had his coil of wire still in one hand,
and his tool bag and a small hacksaw
in the other.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Uriah Epply,
Chatam Electrical Company. Abner
Land sent me out here to connect your
telephone and all that.”

“Oh,” I said. “The telephone. I see.
Sure. The telephone and all what?”

The little man brushed by me into
the hallway.

“And all that,” he said.

I followed him through the hallway
and into the living room. Lynn looked
up again from her reading.

“The man from the electrical com-
pany,” I explained. “He’s going to
connect the telephone and — uh — all
that.”

Lynn went back to her book without
comment.

I followed rotund little Uriah Epply
through the living room, the dining-
room, and into the kitchen. Mrs. Sping-
ler glanced up sharply at our entrance,
looked curiously at Epply, and went
back to peeling potatoes.

Epply crossed the kitchen to the
door at the far end opening down into
the cellar. He turned, at the door, and
said:

“Main switch down in the cellar.”

I nodded, and he opened the door,
found a light-switch on the side of the

staircase, snapped it on, and started
down the stairs. I followed along be-
hind him.

In the cellar proper, Epply found
another light-switch and snapped that
on, flooding the place with a sudden
glaring illumination.

“You seem to know your way around
here,” I observed. “You put in all the
electrical systems?”

He shook his head, laying down his
tool bag and wire coil.

“Nope. Connected the system,
though, for the architect fella who had
this old place remodeled last year. His
contractors come out from New York to
lay out the system. Guess he didn’t
trust us local idjits to get it right. We
were only good enough for turning it
on when the time came.”

“Oh,” I said. “I see.”

Uriah Epply bent over his bag of
tools, opened it, and selected several.
Then, whistling sourly through a miss-
ing front tooth, he marched over to a
wall fuse-and-connection box and
opened it.

I went over into a corner and took
a seat on a dusty barrel.

“What made the architect move out
in such a hurry?” I asked. “Didn’t he
like the place after he changed it to suit
him.”

Epply turned from his work long
enough to grin.

“He liked it fine. That is, at first.”
He went back to work.

Mentally I cursed the laconic strain
in all New Englanders. I phrased my
next question with a little thought, hop-
ing to put it so I’d get a little more than
the usual eyedropper full of informa-
tion.

“What do you mean by that? I mean,
what happened? I’m interested in hear-
ing what you know about it.”

Uriah Epply tinkered for a moment
while he considered the question. Then

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

he turned around and thoughtfully
jabbed his round chin with a wire snip-
pers.

“Seems like he — this architect fella —
didn’t realize that this here house was
jinxed. Anyways, if he did know it, he
seemed to think he could change the jinx
by changing the house. Course he
couldn’t. House looked mighty differ-
ent when he got through. But under-
neath, I guess, it was the same old
house. Just a different face, if you see
what I mean.”

“I see what you mean,” I said.

T TRIAH EPPLY tsked reflectively,
and turned back to work. Again
I did some mental cursing, and again
phrased another question that would
bring forth another droplet of informa-
tion.

“What was it all about?” I asked.
Uriah Epply looked up from his work.
“All what about?”

I felt like screaming. Instead I said:
“The jinx on the house. How did it
start? I mean, how did the story about
it start? What makes people around
here think it’s haunted or jinxed, or
whatever they think? There must be
a local legend about it.”

Uriah Epply carefully put his tools
on the floor, found a pack of cigarettes
in his leather jacket pocket, took one
out and lighted it. Then he turned to
face me.

“You never heard?” he asked.

I wanted to kick him in the mouth
and stamp him into insensibility. What
in the hell did he suppose I was asking
for, if I’d heard?

“No,” I said with amazing calm.
“No. I’ve never heard.”

“That so?” Uriah Epply marvelled,
his round little face wrinkled in mild
astonishment. “That’s really funny.
The architect fella knew. I mean, he
knew before he even bought the place

and started remodeling it. He called it
all a lot of guff and nonsense, though.”

Uriah Epply’s pause prompted me to
ask despairingly:

“He called what a lot of guff and
nonsense?”

“The story about the house,” said
Epply.

“Oh,” I said chokingly. “Oh, I see.
Well what is the story about the
house?”

If my voice rose on the last three
words Epply didn’t show any sign of
noticing it. He took a reflective drag
from his cigarette and smiled.

“I guess you never heard of the Bag-
gat boys, eh?” he said.

“No,” I told him. “I never heard
of the Baggat boys. What do they have
to do with the story?”

Pulling teeth was like picking posies
compared to the job of getting infor-
mation out of this New England elec-
trician. Pie shook his head wonderingly.

“Most folks around these parts know
the history of the Baggat boys from
Ebenezer to Zekial,” he observed won-
deringly. “Sure seems funny you
don’t know it.”

“Maybe,” I said carefully, “I haven’t
been around these parts long enough.
And maybe you’ll oblige by telling me
who in the name of blazes the Baggat
boys are.”

“Was,” corrected Uriah Epply
mildly.

“All right,” I conceded, “'who was
they — I mean, were?”

“Ever hear of the James boys?” Ep-
ply asked by way of an answer.

“Frank and Jesse?” I asked.

“That’s right,” said Uriah Epply.
“They was a little better known, though
than the Baggat boys was.”

“Oh,” I said, considerably less irri-
tated now that we seemed to be mak-
ing a little sense. “The Baggat boys
were notorious bandits around these

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

parts, eh?”

“Wasn’t hardly a bank in all New
England they didn’t knock over,” said
Uriah Epply with a touch of local pride
in his voice.

“I see. How long ago was that era?”
“Same era as when the James boys
was gunning up the wild and woolly
west,” Epply said. “Come to think,
could be why the Baggat boys didn’t
become better known. Come to think,
the James boys probably took all the
publicity themselves.”

“I see,” I told him. “Sounds reason-
able. Now tell me how the Baggat boys
fit into the legend around this remod-
eled old New England farmhouse.”

QF COURSE, Uriah Epply didn’t
answer my question directly.

“There was two of the Baggat boys,”
he said. “They was blood brothers.
One was Bob Baggat; the other was
Hiram Baggat. Bob was the smartest
of the two, Hi was the quickest with a
gun.”

Epply paused and half closed his
eyes, as though visualizing Bob Bag-
gat being bright and Hiram Baggat be-
ing bloodthirsty. He sighed, opened
his eyes again, dropped his cigarette to
the floor and crushed it out methodically
with his foot.

“How,” I said thinly, “do the Baggat
boys figure into the superstition around
this house?”

Uriah Epply gave me a look of mild
surprise.

“Superstition, you say?”

I was beginning to show my irritation
and impatience.

“Of course,” I snapped. “What
else?”

Uriah Epply shrugged his shoulders,
raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t rightly know what else,” he
said. “Always looked on it as fact, my-
self. After all, that’s what it is — fact.”

“What’s fact?”

“The story,” said Epply imperturb-
ably. “The whole thing is fact. In his-
tory books, old newspapers, right in
the Chatam Library you can see the
newspaper clippings about the Baggat
boys, Bob and Hi. Can’t call historic
fact like that superstition.”

“Please,” I begged quietly, “tell me
the story. Tell me how they fit into
the superst — ah — attitude locally taken
about this house.”

Uriah Epply grinned.

“Glad to,” he said. “Didn’t know
you’d be interested. Funny thing no
one else ain’t told you by now. Abner
Land, of course, now he wouldn’t be
likely to tell you. Not and being the
real estate man who was trying to rent
this house ever since the architect last
summer took out and run — ”

I cut him off.

“The story,” I said hoarsely. “Re-
member?”

“Sure,” acknowledged Epply. “These
Baggat boys, like I was telling you, or
trying to tell you, was desperadoes —
just like Frank and Jesse James was.
They lived wild and high and handsome
and kept the whole darned countryside
in these parts terrorized. Night after
night they stuck up bank after bank.
Fligh flying, hell-riding devils they was.
Trains, too; stuck up many a train and
robbed the mail of the U. S. government
no less. Oh, my yes. They was plenty
poisonous.”

I didn’t bother to interrupt again in
an effort to get him to the point of the
story. There was no sense in that. All
I could do was let him ramble. I knew
that he’d reach it eventually.

“Well, these Baggat boys, brothers,
like I told you,” Epply continued, “got
away with murder and robbery and
Lord knows what all for darned near
three, four years. And the more they
robbed and shot and the likes, the more

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

people around these parts got madder
and madder. But trouble was, as the
people got madder and madder, the
Baggats got more and more cocky, un-
derstand? See how it was?”

I said that I could understand how
that would be logical.

“Finally the people round these parts
has had just too much from them
Baggat boys. They appeal to the gov-
ernor. Yes sir, right to the governor
of this fair state himself.. They tell
him they want the state militia called
out and put on the trail of these here
Baggat boys.”

p PPLY paused to search through his
leather jacket for another cigarette.
He found one after a minute, put it in
his mouth, and lighted it. He had to
wait until the end was burning to suit
him before he went on.

“Well, the Baggat boys heard that
the governor was sending out the state
militia against them, and they sent out
a bunch of cocksure challenges to all
the villages, defying the troops to get
’em. The Baggat boys was like that,
you understand, cocky as hell and proud
as twin devils. They was up in the hills
a few miles from here, right at the foot
of the Henner Mountain, in fact, hiding
out. And to show the state troops what
they thought of them, they planned to
stage a bang-bang bank robbery right
under their noses. You see, there was a
troop of state militia sent to Chatam,
first off.”

I was less impatient now, and be-
ginning to be actually concerned with
the details of the Baggat boy’s and their
escapades. I nodded eagerly for Epply
to get on with his narration.

But now that the rotund little electri-
cian had been winding me around his
little finger, he surprisingly enough
didn’t take advantage of the situation.
He got right on with it.

“The entire town of Chatam was up
in arms to think that the Baggat boys
picked out their little village to insult
that way,” Uriah Epply said. “And
don’t think that the state militia on
guard in the village wasn’t burned up,
either.”

“The Baggat brothers sent out notice
that they were going to pull a hold-up
of the village bank in Chatam?” I
asked in astonishment.

“Nothing less,” Uriah Epply said.
“Sent the notice to the mayor of Chatam
himself. Happened that the mayor was
also president of the little bank and a
colonel in the state militia.”

“Good lord,”’ I marveled. “What
happened then?”

“The mayor and the entire village, as
well as the militia, went plumb crazy
mad. They sat up night and day in
shifts, all carrying guns and vowing
to fill the first sign of anybody look-
ing like a Baggat boy with lead. You
see, the Baggat brothers even told the
mayor that they was gonna rob the
bank within a certain two-week period,
starting that very day.”

I whistled my admiration at the au-
dacity.

“And when did they try it?” I asked.
“Or did they?”

“Try it?” Uriah Epply seemed sur-
prised and a little indignant. “Try it?
They did it! And they walked off with
thirty thousand dollars right out of
town.”

“But ” I began.

“Course the entire town and all the
state militia was right on their heels,”
Epply said. “Shooting and hollering
and chasing the Baggat boys to beat
hell. Understand there wasn’t more
than couple hundred yards between the
Baggat boys’s horses’ heels and the guns
of the pursuing citizenry.”

“A few hundred yards?” I gasped.

“Well, maybe half a mile, maybe a

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

mile. No more than that,” Uriah Ep-
ply amended.

“Did they shake loose from their
pursuers?” I asked.

“Nope. Couldn’t quite. They had to
change their plans when Bob Baggat’s
horse was hit. They had to take to
hiding quick, and they picked out this
here old farmhouse.”

J LOOKED wordlessly around the

cellar, thrilling at the thought that
the Baggat boys might possibly have
held whispered conferences in the very
corner in which I sat.

“Did the townspeople and the militia
trace them to here?” I asked.

“Course,” said Epply. “Trail was
easy to follow. The posse after ’em
tracked ’em here in less than three
hours after they robbed the bank.”

“What about the people who were
living in the farmhouse here at the
time?” I demanded.

“Baggat boys let ’em loose without
killing any,” Epply said, “when they
saw that the posse had caught up with
’em and was surrounding this here
house.”

“Gallant gesture,” I said.

“Maybe. Maybe they didn’t want
’em in the way when the shooting
started, interfering with their aim.”

“Then the Baggat brothers decided
to hold the fort and shoot it out with
the posse?” I demanded.

“Course. They was proud. The posse
was ringed ten men deep all around
the farmhouse. Mouse couldn’t sneak
thorough in the black of night, without
brushing a human’s shoe. The Baggats
knew all this, but they was damned if
they’d face the humiliation of getting
captured alive.”

“Gooff!” I grunted. “What custom-
ers they must have been.”

Uriah Epply nodded proudly.

“Sure was. When the posse had the

place completely encircled, ten deep
like I said, the mayor — who was also
a militia colonel — snaked forward on
his belly into the clearing edge near
the house and hollered for them to
surrender. Bob Baggat shot his hat
clean off his head, by way of answer-
ing.”

I nodded in pop-eyed wonder.

“Mayor went back to his posse line
and told the boys to open fire at will,”
Epply continued. “My grandpappy —
he died when I was just a youngster —
used to tell me about it. He was one
of the villagers in the posse. Well, when
the mayor gave his order, you never
heard the like of noise that started.

Bang, bang, bang, bang — it was ter-
rible. Most likely three hundred bullets
a minute pouring into that farmhouse
on the Baggat boys.”

“And that did them in very shortly,
I suppose,” I said.

Uriah Epply looked indignant.

“Did not,” he snorted. “Baggat boys
killed eleven men in the posse in less’n
forty minutes of that one-sided ex-
change. The posse kept the house just
as completely encircled, but had to fall
back out of range.”

“It’s almost incredible,” I said.

“ ’Tis,” said Epply, “but you’ll find it
in the library down to Chatam any
time you want to look. State history
has it, too.”

“Go ahead,” I begged him. “How
did it wind up?”

Uriah Epply smiled curiously.

“Hard to say that, completely. I’ll
explain. The siege lasted six days.”

“Six days?” I broke in.

“And one night,” added Epply. “Yes-
siree. That’s how long it lasted. Posse
tried to rush the farmhouse ten times
in all. Lost two dozen men in killed and
wounded trying. They knew the Baggat
boys was out of food and water and
wasn’t sleeping scarce a wink, so they

THE PLACE

fust waited them out after the last try
at rushing the place. Safer that way.”
“How’d they know when the Baggot
boys would be broken?” I asked.

“Every so often they’d let loose with
a few hundred bullets into the house
and the Baggat boys alius answered
fire. They figgered that when they fin-
ally let loose with a volley and didn’t
get any answer, the Baggot boys would
be half a day away from dead.”

“How t did the Baggat brothers hold
out on ammunition supply?” I asked.

“HpHEY’D picked up some they’d had
buried away in a cache nearby.
Picked it up in running from the bank,
before they made this here farmhouse.
They had plenty to stand off a seige.”
“And so they Baggat boys didn’t
answer fire on the sixth day, eh?” I
asked.

“The afternoon of the sixth day,”
Epply specified. “The posse was hope-
ful, then, and volleyed again around
nightfall. The Baggat boys still didn’t
return the fire. Well, then they rushed
the farmhouse, the first line of the posse
did, that is. The rest, nine deep, then,
kept the ring and waited, just in case.
They saw to it that it would be impos-
sible for the Baggat boys to get through
the ring, even though they might slip
through the front ring rushing the
house. Mouse couldn’t get through
without being seen.”

“And the posse found the Baggat
boys dead of starvation or bullets, eh?”
Uriah Epply paused to take a deep,
contemplative drag from his cigarette.
He looked at me and grinned strangely.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “They
didn’t find the Baggat boys at all. Not
a trace of them.”

“Is that right?” I began. Then, as
the realization of what Epply had said
suddenly dawned on me, I blurted:
“What?”

!S FAMILIAR 69

“That’s right. They didn’t find a
trace,” said the rotund little narrator.
“They found empty food larders, empty
water jugs, empty shells, and a house
that was in ribbons with bullet holes
everywhere. You couldn’t put a quar-
ter on the floors or walls or even the
ceiling without touching a bullet hole.
But the Baggat boys just wasn’t pres-
ent.”

“But that’s impossible!” I bleated.

Epply nodded agreeably.

“Sure it was impossible. They
couldn’t have skipped out at any time
during the seige. Like I said, an ant
would have been noticed if he tried to
get through the ten deep ring around
this here farmhouse. Was just impos-
sible, that’s all. Impossible.”

“Then they must have been here in
the farmhouse,” I protested. “In the
attic, or down here in the cellar.”

“Weren’t nowhere in the farmhouse.
Every place and nook and board and
cranny remaining of this here farm-
house was searched up and down and
high and wide. One militia trooper even
looked under the rugs on the floor. But
the Baggat boys just wasn’t to be
found.”

“But where did they go?” I de-
manded,

“From the facts of the case, real his-
tory, mind you, seems like they didn’t
go anywhere,” Uriah Epply said.
“They musta stayed right in this here
old farmhouse.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” I protested.
“If they’d been in this farmhouse,
they’d have been found. Or, at any
rate, their bodies would have. It’s pre-
posterous to suppose otherwise. Un-
doubtedly they escaped, through some
miracle, and took to the hills. That’s
the only explanation.”

“There’s another,” said Epply,
“that’s been considered seriously by
folks in Chatam ever since.”

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“And what’s that?”

“That they’re still here,” said Epply,
“even now.”

“Absurd,” I snorted. But in spite of
my opinion and the strength with which
I held it, a tiny sliver of a chill jabbed
into my spine.

“If you can believe they walked right
through a wall of human flesh to free-
dom,” Uriah Epply said calmly, “it isn’t
a great deal more silly to believe that
they’re still here in this house, and that
they was in this house when the posse
searched it, only wasn’t seen.”

My rotund little New Englander
turned around then and began tinker-
ing once more with the electric unit box.
It was obviously a sign that the discus-
sion, as far as he was concerned, was
ended.

I got up from my barrel and walked
over to the stairs.

“It’s ridiculous,” I said.

Uriah Epply didn’t bother answer-
ing. I clumped disgustedly up the
stairs and into the kitchen. . . .

HpHE DINNER SERVED by Mrs.

Spingler that evening was a culinary
heaven. It was amazing to think that
such a sour old witch could be such an
incredibly good cook, and I mentally
noted this variance- in her outward and
utilitarian selves for discussion some-
time with a psychiatrist.

The dinner was so delicious that it
even worked noticible improvement on
Lynn’s disposition.

For that feat alone I would have
happily trebled Martha Spingler’s
wages, had I been able to afford to.

Lynn used much of her improved at-
titude in discussion of the following
day’s visit from her family. I chimed
in as amiably as I could, keeping away
from any angles that might become
sparks for an argument, and the meal
was finished with a remarkable degree

of good feeling.

We sat in the living room, smoking
and talking and laughing over remin-
iscences for several hours after dinner,
and Lynn went upstairs and came down
again with a fifth of Scotch she had
tucked away in one of the steamer
trunks.

We opened the bottle and had a few
drinks, and a couple of hours after that
I almost slipped and told Lynn the silly
legend around the history of our new
home. But I managed to cover up all
right, and kept clear of anything that
might trip me into it again.

About ten o’clock Mrs. Spingler —
who had been busy at some damned
self-made chore in the kitchen — came
into the living room to announce that
she was going upstairs to her room for
some sleep, and inquire about the time
we wanted our breakfast.

Lynn told her that we’d probably
sleep a little late, and to have our morn-
ing meal on the griddle about ten thirty
or a quarter to eleven. Mrs. Spingler
showed obvious disapproval of such a
wastrel’s breakfast hour, and went up-
stairs muttering things about city peo-
ple.

I turned on the radio and got some
news, and about fifteen minutes later
Lynn yawned and announced that she
was all in.

“It’s been a long day for both of us,”
I agreed. “I’ll turn in now, too.”

Lynn staxted upstairs and told me
to turn out the lights in the living room.
I did so, happily, realizing that although
our battle was not yet done, nor won,
Lynn was at least willing to carry along
for a bit in the status of a friendly
enough truce.

I heard Lynn’s sharp exclamation of
alarm when I was halfway up the stairs.
She had reached the bedroom a minute
ahead of me.

“Tom!” she cried, then. “Tom!”

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

I ran up the rest of the stairs and
burst into the bedroom to find her star-
ing in horror at the bed. My heart was
in my mouth, and I didn’t dare think of
what I was going to see.

“What’s wrong, baby? What’s the
matter?” I gasped.

“Look at the bed, Tom,” she gasped
strickeniy, “The fools forgot to get
sheets. It’s made up without sheets and
we’ll have to sleep between blankets!”

The water left my knees and my
heart came back to its normal position
in my chest.

“Whew!” I gasped. “You had me
worrier for a minute, baby.”

Lynn looked at me with dismay.

“But this is terrible, Tom,” she
wailed.

“We’ll just have to make the best of
it,” I told her. “I can drive into the
village first thing in the morning and
get enough bedsheets to supply all of
India for a thousand years.”

Which was all we could do — make
the best of it. And Lynn although she
admitted as much, was right back into
her stony mood of that afternoon. The
spell of Mrs. Spingler’s cooking, the
pleasant evening of chatter we’d had,
everything that had been thawing her
out, was a thing of the past again. The
truce was off .

I was awake long after Lynn’s even
breathing told me she was off in dream-
land. Awake and staring at the ceil-
ing, thinking about the big bad Baggat
boys and a number of other things.

Of course, I knew that the double-
time beat on my imagination was due
merely to the darkened room and the
wind sighing through the trees in the
moonless night outside. But even so,
I gave much consideration to the mys-
terious rummaging that had been done
on my suitcases, and the attic noises
that Lynn had heard coming down
through the chimney and out the fire-

place. Noises that she thought had
been made by me. Noises that were
made in a room which was, or should
have been, deserted.

I went to sleep determining to have
a look in the attic the following morn-
ing, first thing. Went to sleep as the
rain started to patter down against
the window pane, and the thunder
crackled in the distant hills. . . .

T YNN woke me up. I heard the
rain beating monotonously against
the window pane and the guttural growl-
ings of thunder as I blinked away the
sleep and stared around the gloomy
grayness of the room.

“What time is it?” I demanded.

“Nine o’clock,” Lynn said.

“Morning or noon?” I gagged quite
unfunnily.

“Look at that storm outside,” Lynn
groaned.

“I can hear it and imagine what it’s
like by now,” I said. “It was starting
off about the time I fell asleep last night.
Evidently it’s been hard at it ever
since.”

“The driveway to Kingston Road is
a swamp if it’s all like the stretch out-
side the house,” Lynn said. “What on
earth will Father and Mother and
Katherine and W r alter do?”

“Get a little wet, I suppose,” I said,
which turned out to be the very thing
I shouldn’t have said. Lynn glared at
me.

“You wouldn’t care,” she snapped.

“Of course I would,” I said soothing-
ly, hastily. “Only there doesn’t seem
to be anything I could do about it, does
there?”

“Wake up Mrs. Spingler," said Lynn
by way of answer to that. ‘And tell her
to make us some breakfast. I’m
starved.”

A jagged bolt of lightning split the
sky at that instant, as thunder crashed.

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

It made me think of Mrs. Spingler’s
probable reaction toward anyone with
gall enough to rouse her.

‘No, thanks,” I said. “You wake
her. I’ll munch soda crackers rather
than face that old girl.”

Lynn gave me a look that was
half vicious lion and half angry wife.

“You craven coward!” she said.

She climbed out of bed and struggled
into a quilted housecoat.

“I could starve to death in this God-
forsaken forest, for all you care.”

“It’s not a forest,” I began.

A brisk rapping on the door inter-
rupted my protestations.

Before I could yell, “Come in,” the
door was pushed open and the cause for
our quarrel stuck her unlovely face into
the room.

“I heard your voices,” said Mrs.
Spingler, “and I wanted to know if
you’d like me to fix breakfast now.”

Lynn told her to do so by all means,
and that we’d be right down to it. Mrs.
Spingler took her head out of the door
and closed it. Lynn gave a wordless,
contemptuous look that told me exact-
ly what she thought ©f the craven cow-
ardice that had made me flinch at the
thought of asking such an obviously
willing cook to make breakfast.

I ignored the glance, but I couldn’t
help ruminating on the fact that Mrs.
Spingler had, indeed, seemed consider-
ably less dour this morning than she
had last night. In fact, she’d practic-
ally had a merry gleam in her rheumy
eye when she’d asked if we wanted
breakfast.

I decided the only explanation for her
cheerfulness was the storm. It was
probably all deeply psychological, and
prompted by the fact that storms made
normal, happy people miserable and
therefore brought cheery good will into
the hearts of Salem witches and Mrs.
Spinglers.

jT YNN and I arrived at the break-
fast table in gloomy, mutually ap-
preciated silence.

The breakfast was superb, positively
royal. If you can imagine a banquet
being held for a breakfast rather than
dinner, you’ll have some idea of the
repast Mrs. Spingler set for us.

Lynn ate ravenously, and I didn’t
exactly ignore the fare myself. Mrs.
Spingler, cheery as a lark, buzzed back
and forth from kitchen to dining-room
like a May Queen dashing around the
pole.

What few words Lynn and I ex-
changed were sadistically savage.

“You’ll have to make several trips
into town, today,” Lynn reminded me.
“Through the storm.”

“Why several?” I asked innocently
enough. “I can pick up everything in
one trip.”

“There’ll probably be something I’ll
forget,” Lynn said. And from the way
she said it, I knew that the statement
was a promise and a threat.

“I’ll wait until you remember what
you’re planning to forget,” I said, trying
to ease the strain.

“Bedsheets,” said Lynn, “will be nec-
essary for each of the bedrooms. Four
pairs of sheets for each. Sleeping be-
neath those scratchy blankets last night
was one of the most loathsome experi-
ences I have ever had.”

“Mrs. Spingler’s room was also minus
sheets,” I said. “She doesn’t seem to
have minded it a bit.”

“She’d undoubtedly prefer a good
stiff haircloth sleeping bag,” Lynn said,
“placed on a plank.”

Lynn was in a lovely mood. She was
hating everybody. I tried to change
the topic to someone she couldn’t hate.

“The storm might delay your family
a few hours,” I said. “Particularly if
the roads flood over.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

Lynn snapped.

“Now, listen ...” I began.

Lynn cut me off, her voice growing
more angry with each word.

“Oh, yes you would. You’d relish
that; Thomas Kelvin. You’d sit there
warm and dry in front of the fire and
rub your hands over it. I know you
would. I can tell just the way you
made that crack!”

“My God!” I protested, forgetting
my placating role momentarily. “I
didn’t make anything like a crack. All
I said was ”

“I heard what you said,” Lynn cried,
rising indignantly from the table.
“Don’t try to turn the words around to
get out of it. And the smirk you had
on your face when you made that
crack was worse than the crack itself ! ”

I sighed, and picked at some sausage
with my fork.

“It couldn’t have been,” I told her.
“It just couldn’t have been worse than
my saying that I hoped your entire
family was caught in a road flood and
drowned like pack rats.”

Lynn reached for the left-over pan-
cakes on the platter before I had wind
of her intention. They caught me flush
on the side of my unshaven chin, and
a thin trickle of syrup rolled down my
neck as she stamped out of the dining-
room and upstairs.

Mrs. Spingler appeared at the door
between kitchen and dining-room a
split second later. She was beaming.

“It’s quite a storm we’re having, Mr.
Kelvin, isn’t it?”

I picked the remains of Lynn’s missle
from my face and stood up with as
much dignity as I could muster.

“Mrs. Spingler,” I said with acid
politeness, “may I call you Martha?”

T YNN kept to her room for an hour
or so, while I panthered around the
living room and listened to the storm

play hell with the radio reception.

It -was almost eleven o’clock when
Lynn came downstairs. The expres-
sion she wore was the one she’d use on
a ticket-taker in a depot — cold, imper-
sonal, and utterly emotionless.

“Isn’t it about time you started for
the village?” she asked. “I would pre-
fer to have everything in order when
my family arrives.”

The tone she used implied that she’d
like to have everything in order as
much as it could possibly be so in such
a hole and under such exceedingly try-
ing circumstances.

I sighed inwardly, and pushed a few
remarks I’d been rehearsing off my
tongue. It was going to be more im-
portant to placate Lynn while her fam-
ily was present than at any other time
in the battle. To get her too sore while
they were around would just be playing
into their hands, and I was determined
not to do that.

Swallowing my pride wasn’t too hard,
when I made a mental check to pay
Lynn back later for those pancakes.

“Okay, baby,” I said. “I’ll run up-
stairs and shave and get into an un-
pressed suit. I’ll be into the village
and back in plenty of time before they
arrive. You got a list of what you
want?”

Lynn handed me a list, and I stuffed
it into the pocket of my bathrobe, es-
sayed a forgiving we’ll-be-friends smile,
and started upstairs.

I was in the process of changing
clothes when I remembered my resolve
of the previous night to have a look in
the attic. In the gloomy light of morn-
ing it didn’t seem nearly so important.

“What the devil,” I told myself, “I’ll
let it go until later in the afternoon.
The attic might be a good place to be
while Lynn’s family is here.”

I slipped into a gabardine topcoat
and stuck my hand into the pocket won-

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

dering if I’d left the keys to the car
there. The keys were there, plus a
folded sheet of coarse paper.

Examination of the folded paper
showed it to be the sort that butchers
use, or used to use, to wrap up meats.
Brown and, as I said before, thick and
coarse.

Thinking it might be a receipt I
picked up unthinkingly in Chatam’s
general store, I unfolded it casually.

It wasn’t a receipt. It was a note.

The note was written in a loose,
scrawling, childish hand, with a thick,
smeary black substance that seemed to
be charcoal. It was brief and to the
point:

This is noe plase fer a stranger. This
is yewre jerst warning. Take heed uv
it.

It was unsigned.

I reread the note several times, jaw
foolishly agape. And then I thought
of the messed-up luggage and the noises
in the attic and realized I had now an-
other incident to ponder.

I stuffed the note back into my pocket
and went downstairs. Lynn wasn’t in
the living room, and I heard her talk-
ing to Mrs. Spingler out in the kitchen.

When I went out there, Mrs. Spingler
smiled in what she probably believed to
be bright domestic cheeriness and
handed me a small piece of paper.

“The missus says she wants turkey
at dinner tonight,” said the cook. “And
I made out a list of some of the things
I’ve planned to have with it.”

I took the list and glanced at it with
more than idle curiosity. Mrs. Spingler
had written it in a fine, precise, school-
marmish hand. There was nothing
loose or scrawly or illiterate about it,
and the amateur Sherlock in me was
convinced that she hadn’t written the
message I’d found in my pocket.

“Don’t forget anything,” Lynn said.

I promised I wouldn’t, and wondered

if she had. Then I left by the back
way, through the kitchen, and went
around to the garage, slogging through
mud and merciless rain.

After five minutes spent in cursing
the awkward mechanism necessary to
endure in order to put the top of the
convertible up, I was under way.

npHE gravel roadway leading to King-
A ston Road was heavily flooded, but
I managed to get through it without
portaging the roadster across the
streams on my back.

The Kingston Road proved equally
damp but considerably less difficult, and
I was able to make Chatam in the some-
what snailish time of forty minutes.

I picked up the stuff on the lists given
me by Lynn and Mrs. Spingler without
too much difficulty, and, thoroughly
soaked, climbed back behind the wheel
almost an hour later and started back
for the place.

The rain had now settled down to a
sloshing monotony minus the previous
thunder and lightning, and there didn’t
seem to be any indication that it would
clear up for some time.

There was more water going back
than coming, of course, and the driving
was even a little- tougher than before.
It was a matter of forty-five minutes
before I finally turned off onto the
flooded gravel roadway leading to our
place.

I managed to cover several hundred
yards before I ran into trouble at the
first turn. The trouble was in the form
of a washout which had turned the road-
way at that point into a three-foot-deep
stream.

Maybe I made my mistake in gun-
ning the motor and trying to smash
straight through it. At any rate, the
points in the motor must have gotten
a thorough soaking as I splashed head-
on into it, for the motor coughed and

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

stopped right in the middle of the wash-
out.

I sat there motionless, throwing to-
gether a dictionary of improper names
as I stared through the windshield into
the downpour and wondered what in
the hell I was going to do.

Futilely, a few moments later, I tried
to start the motor again. It wasn’t
having any, thank you, and didn’t even
bother to cough apologetically.

I looked through the side windows
and ascertained that I was squarely in
the middle of a miniature lake. Getting
out would be like stepping into a chil-
dren’s wading pool.

Then I thought of the stuff I had
piled up in the back. It wasn’t so much
that I couldn’t carry it the additional
mile up to the house in one load, but at
the same time, it wasn’t the sort of
stuff, for the most part, that could be
safely lugged one mile through a deluge
of rain and mud.

I looked at the clock on the dash-
board.

It was twenty minutes after one.

“Lynn’s family is probably already
entrenched in the living room,” I mut-
tered, “warming themselves in the snug
dry comfort of the fireplace.”

I pushed that pleasant probability
from my mind, since it served only to
make me more dismal than warranted
even by my present- plight.

I found a slightly dampened cigar-
ette and lighted it with the third soggy
match from a pack in my pocket. I
was smoking resignedly and staring
dourly at nothing when I suddenly re-
membered the big tarpaulin in the rum-
ble seat.

That was a solution.

I could get out the tarp, bring it
around to the front and pile practically
all the packages into it, using it like a
huge knapsack. Carrying it that way,
like a grotesque Santa with an enor-

mous sack, I could get the stuff up to
the house without any of it suffering
from the elements.

I was especially pleased with my re-
sourcefulness, even when I opened the
door and stepped out of the car into
three feet of cold rain water.

npHE scheme proved practicable, and
inside of another ten minutes I \yas
drenched to the skin, but had managed
to collect all the packages into the tar-
paulin and sling the load over my shoul-
der.

I left the car in the center of the
washed-out roadway and started for the
house. The rain was still pouring buck-
ets, and the footing underneath made
me think of swampland and quicksand,
but it really didn’t matter. I was
as soaked as any human being could
be before I’d even started.

It took me about fifteen minutes to
get to the house, and when Lynn opened
the front door to see my bedraggled,
bemudded and besoaked condition she
almost fainted.

“Tom,” she gasped. “What’s hap-
pened, Tom? Did you have an acci-
dent? Have you been hurt?”

I shoved the big tarpaulin knapsack
through the door ahead of me, and the
packages spilled across the hallway as
it came open. Then I stepped inside
and Lynn closed the door behind me.

I told her briefly what had happened,
and added:

“Your folks safe and dry in our
midst?”

Lynn shook her head.

“No. I’m terribly worried. They
haven’t arrived yet. You’d think they’d
telephone if anything had happened to
delay them.”

“They’re all right, Lynn,” I assured
her. “It’s just very slow going on the
roads today, even the smoothest high-
ways.”

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

Lynn went into the living room, and
I clumped puddles up the stairs to the
bedroom. I changed completely, get-
ting in a hot shower between costumes.
I came downstairs, then, feeling very
hardy and very virtuous for having
braved the storm and rain — and ex-
tremely happy that I was no longer do-
ing so. Lynn was smoking a cigarette
nervously and pacing back and forth
between the fireplace and the big front
window that looked out on the rain-
swept roadway.

“Don't worry yourself into a state,
baby,” I said. “They’ll be all right.
Maybe they stopped off to pick up some
water wings.”

Lynn glared at me, but didn’t say
anything. I went into the hallway and
saw that Mrs. Spingler, or Lynn, had
removed the packages I’d left there.

“Where’s the liquor I brought?” I
yelled out to Lynn.

She didn’t answer and I went back
into the kitchen and saw Mrs. Spingler
putting away a lot of the stuff I’d got-
ten. The half case of Scotch was in
the corner under the sink.

“I’ll pack this a,wav in the cabinet in
the living room,” I told the cook.

Lynn was sitting in a chair by the
big window when I brought the bottles
into the living room and began to store
them in the cabinet bar there.

“Like a drink, baby?”

She shook her head. I opened the
bottle that we had left from the previ-
ous night, found a glass, and poured
myself a stiff, warming hooker.

I sighed as I sank into an easy chair
near the fire, tumbler full of Scotch in
my hand.

Lynn got up again, lighted a cigar-
ette, and began pacing restlessly back
and forth. I was tempted to bring up
the old saw about a watched kettle nev-
er boiling, then thought better of it.

By the time I’d poured myself a

second drink, Lynn w 7 as out in the
kitchen occupying her mind in over-
seeing Mrs. Spingler’s preparations for
dinner.

I got up and turned on the radio,
searching for a news broadcast. I had
found one, and was starting back to
my chair, when I glanced casually out
the big front window 7 and saw Lynn’s
family.

r J''HEY were slogging up the gravel
roadway in the deluging rain, on
foot, and I have never seen four more
miserable spectacles than the four of
them presented.

Oliver Jerem, Lynn’s dad, led the pro-
cession. He was a short, paunchy, red-
faced white-haired man who looked like
a cartoon of a successful business ty-
coon. At the moment he carried a pair
of enormous suitcases, one in either
hand, and was swathed Indian-fashion
in an automobile robe. His once jaunty
Homburg was a sodden droop of fine felt
over his ^ ears, and his pin-striped
trousers were caked to the knees with
mud.

Second in the line of approaching
guests was Lynn’s mother. She was a
small, thin woman who looked at the
moment like a thoroughly, irate wet hen.
For shelter from the deluge she held
some soaked, pulpy newspapers over the
drooping feather of a once jaunty hat.

Katherine — Lynn’s tall, thin, pseudo-
blase and extremely neurotic sister-—
brought up the rear with her husband,
Walter Lurgar.

Walter was — generally — the perfect
model of a tailor’s dummy. The im-
peccable suit he inevitably wore was
invariably “gentleman’s attire” with the
one exception that they w r ere a little too
sharply tailored, a trifle too keenly
pressed. The suit, topcoat and natty
fedora he now wore might once have
suited his tastes. Now they’d be sneered

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

at by a scarecrow.

I stood there a moment at the win-
dow, grinning from ear to ear, and then
I dashed into the kitchen and an-
nounced their approach to Lynn.

She looked at me in glee that swiftly
faded into horror.

“Did you say they’re afoot?” she de-
manded aghast.

I nodded. “Car must have broken
down on them, or had the same thing
happen to it that happened to mine.”

Lynn went into action then.

“What are you standing around use-
lessly for, Thomas Kelvin?” she de-
manded. “You said yourself that
they’ve their luggage with them, and in
that terrible downpour I don’t see how
they can ”

I cut her off.

“Your father is carrying both suit-
cases,” I said. “And he seems to be get-
ting along just fine with them. If he
needs extra help, there’s always Walter,
who isn’t carrying anything but a mis-
erable scowl at the moment.”

Lynn glared at me and dashed into
the living room and over to the window.
She stared out at her family’s procession
for half a minute, then turned and
bolted for the hallway. I went over to
the window and looked out. The Jerems
and the Lurgars had made it to the walk,
by now, and were slogging up to the
door.

I took a deep breath and hid my grin
under an anxious, sympathetic expres-
sion. Then I followed Lynn into the
hallway.

CHE had the door open, and rain spray
was sifting in through the opening.
I stood behind her and watched the
party advance grimly up to the front
stoop.

“Daddy! ’’Lynn cried. “Mother!”

And then, before I could stop her,
she made a dash out across the stoop

and threw her arms around Oliver
Jerem.

“Oh, you poor, poor dears!” she ex-
claimed. “You’re all drenched to the
skin!”

Oliver Jerem muttered something
that sounded like a growling agree-
ment and enlargement on that state-
ment. Mrs. Jerem broke into a shrill
cry of anguished greeting, and I could
see Walter Lurgar exchanging under-
the-breath curses with Katherine, his
wife and Lynn’s sister.

Then I stepped back from the door
and the inundated little caravan pud-
dled into the hallway.

“Hello, folks,” I greeted them, “glad
to have you with us.”

“Thomas,” grunted Oliver Jerem,
giving me a frosty glare, “is that your
triple damned thirty blanked jib-jab
convertible down on that washed-out
stretch of the road?”

I nodded.

“Same thing must have happened to
both of us, eh, Mr. Jerem?”

The head of the Jerem household
gave me a withering and piercing stare.

“What do you mean by that? he de-
manded.

“Motors konking out, thanks to the
splash of the miniature rivers that
thwarted us,” I amplified.

“We were forced to walk a mile to
this place because your machine is still
blocking the road and it is quite impos-
sible, what with the flood and the storm,
to pass by it. Nothing happened to the
motor of my limousine. It is still in
excellent condition and would have de-
livered us to the door if it hadn’t been
for that — that — blasted convertible col-
legian’s car of yours ! ” he thundered.

Lynn swung on me then.

“You deliberately left our car in the
middle of a flooded road, blocking the
way to our house a mile off?” she gasped
angrily.

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“I didn’t do anything of the sort” ; I
said protestingly, “not deliberately, at
any rate. My car stalled in the middle
of that minor river out there. How in
the blazes was I to move it? Besides,
I thought your family had already ar-
rived. After all, they were supposed to
be here around noon. How was I to
know that they’d be blocked off in a
stor ”

Lynn’s mother cut me off.

“Thomas,” she said with mild, mar-
tyred reproof, “you don’t stop to think.
That’s the only trouble with you.”

I shut my eyes tightly and counted
half-way to ten. Then I sighed, opening
them.

“You people are drenched” I said.
“The best thing to do is get right up-
stairs to the guest rooms and change.
I’ll mix some drinks and have them
ready when you come down.”

There was much muttering, much
stamping around, much solicitous mur-
muring from Lynn about the general
condition of the little party. But even-
tually, they started upstairs and I was
left alone in the living room.

Grimly, tight-lipped, I set about mix-
ing some hot toddies. This involved
going out into the kitchen and ordering
Mrs. Spingler to cease her turkey pluck-
ing long enough to put a pot of hot
water on to boil.

Then I went back into the living
room and measured out good stiff por-
tions for all of them, and an even stif-
fer dose for myself.

I looked at the toddy mix I had
started off for yours truly, then decided
to fix another one, and downed that one
straight. I needed it. Things had
started off with just the sort of a bang
I’d been trying to avoid.

T YNN came down a little later. She
was strictly grim and tight-lipped.
She stood in the archway of the living

room a moment, watching me pour out
another measure of whiskey for myself.

“Well,” she said at last, “you most
certainly made things hideously difficult
from the very beginning.”

I remembered, with difficulty, that
this would be no time to return Lynn’s
hostile attitude. There was, unfortu-
nately, a bond of mutual animosity al-
ready existing between Lynn and her
folks. Anything I did to further it
would be contributing to the downfall
of Thomas Kelvin Inc. So I looked a
little hurt, and a trifle on the apologetic
side, and said:

“It wasn’t intentional, Lynn, I
thought they were already here. And in
addition to that, I had no idea that the
convertible breaking down in the place
it did would block off the road. I guess
I just forgot about the fact that the
flooded road made it impossible to by-
pass the car. Under ordinary condi-
tions there would have been plenty of
room for another car to use for passage.
At any rate. I’m awfully sorry that
your family was put to such an incon-
venience.”

One thing about Lynn, soft talk such
as that was generally fairly well re-
ceived. That is, she knew that she
couldn’t carry on a strictly knock-down-
and-drag-out quarrel alone, especially
when the party of the second part is as
unwilling as I was at the moment, and
as apparently willing to be friends.

Lynn sighed.

“Oh, Tom, everything out here has
been so terribly messed up. It’s not
at all like Manhattan, Everything was
so much more simple then.”

I counted half-way to ten, realizing
that the very presence of her family in
the place had started it all out again.

“Now, Lynn,” I argued amiably, “it’s
not fair to say that so soon. We’ve
scarcely been here twenty-four hours.”

“But everything — ” Lynn began.

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

“Not everything,” I protested calm-
ly, “We have a wonderful cook. The
food has been excellent. The climate
isn’t always like it is today. I under-
stand, from conversations I had with a
few of the villagers, that this sort of
storm comes once or twice a year at the
most.”

Lynn didn’t say anything to this. She
lighted a cigarette and flopped wearily
down on the couch. I figured her si-
lence was — at least in this instance —
better than an answer. I went on rap-
idly, using these last available minutes
alone to counteract the seeds that her
family would undoubtedly begin sow-
ing in another few minutes.

“It was fun last night, wasn’t it,
Lynn?” I asked. “Just sitting around
the living room, talking and having a
few drinks and keeping warm by the
fireplace.”

I paused, letting the nostalgic note
sink in. Lynn still didn’t say anything,
but she looked considerably less antag-
nostic about it all.

“There’s a lot to this country life,
baby,” I went on. “We have even start-
ed to draw the dividends on it. And be-
sides, it’s not as if we were completely
away from everything. There’ll be
week-ends we can spend now and then
in Manhattan. And, with a cook and
maid, all modern conveniences, a beau-
tifully modernized little place like this
— it’s not as if we’re out here roughing
it. What did we have in New York that
we won’t have here?”

Lynn took a thoughtful drag from her
cigarette, looked up with a faint smile,
and said:

“Subways.”

Which wasn’t a bad reaction. At least
she was able to kid about it. I felt a
slight glow of pride, and the situation
seemed not nearly so dark as it had been
a few minutes ago.

“That water ought to be boiling by

now,” I said. “And your folks’ll be
down wanting a nice hot, bracing
drink.”

T STARTED out for the kitchen, and

Lynn, much to my surprise, rose, fol-
lowing me.

She whipped up the rest of the toddy
mix in the kitchen while I turned off
the gas under the boiling water and
managed that department.

We brought the proper ingredients
back into the living room, just like a
husband and wife who had nothing in
the world to be at odds about. And I
put the toddy mugs on a tray while
Lynn added the final touches to the
servings.

I got the idea, at that point, of squirt-
ing an extra little bang of booze into
each toddy. And that was when I
opened the bottom doors of the liquor
cabinet bar and saw that three bottles
of whisky — there had been seven but
ten minutes before, were all that re-
mained in view.

I started to give cry to the discovery
and suddenly shut up.

Four bottles out of seven lifted right
out from under our very noses! What
in the hell went?

I grabbed one of the bottles and
snapped the doors shut.

“I don’t think I put quite enough in
each of those for a starter.”- I said to
Lynn, making automatic conversation
while my mind tore frantically at the
edges of the new mystery. “Here —
I’ll add a little to those glasses.”

Lynn looked at me frowningly,

“Is something wrong, Tom?” she
asked. “You have the most peculiar
expression on your face.”

“Have I?” I smiled as best I could.
“That’s odd. What could possibly be
wrong?”

We heard the voices of Lynn’s father
and mother and her sister and husband

fantastic adventures

coming along the second floor landing,
then, and realized that they were on the
way down.

I was glad, for a change, to have
them barge in. Lynn might have got-
ten more inquisitive about my peculiar
reaction to the disappearance of the
four bottles of booze — about which she
knew nothing at present.

By the time our guests had each had
a drink and were ready for another,
the toddies had warmed up both the
atmosphere and the conversation.

Oliver Jerem, Lynn’s dad and my
ex-boss, had stopped growling long
enough to discuss the international sit-
uation and the stock markets with the
young psychophant husband of Kath-
erine, Walter Lurgar.

The discussion was cheerful enough,
and subtly excluded me from the talk
of men-and-high.-finance. I knew that
old Jerem was trying to bring out a
nostalgic rash on rqe which would set me
to reminiscing — enviously, -wistfully, he
hoped — about the days when I’d been a
stockbrokerage slave under him and
had to chime in on such boring discus-
sions. But of course it didn’t go.

Katherine, in the meantime, wan-
dered around the house with Lynn, in-
specting the rooms and the furniture
and — from what I caught of it every so
often — calling things “quaint” more or
less indiscriminately.

I was, of course, by process of elim-
ination, stuck with the job of making
small talk with my mother-in-law, Mrs.
Jerem.

T TOLD her I liked everything out

here fine, and that Lynn seemed to
be taking to the place, too. At which
point she countered with several re-
marks to indicate that she doubted very
much the veracity of my last statement.

The time passed somehow, and I
mixed more drinks, and pretty soon it

was around three o’clock and I was get-
ting just a trifle high on the toddies
and old man Jerem wasn’t doing so
badly either.

Lynn and Katherine had ended the
tour of the house, and Katherine was
trying to get her rat-faced husband’s
attention away from his father-in-law
long enough to indicate to him by subtle
remarks that she thought the place was
a hideously rustic mess.

It was all very much messed up with
undercurrents as yet unspoken, and yet
I knew that it wouldn’t be smart strate-
gy for me to be the one who brought the
troubles to the surface. They were out
here for one purpose — to try to make
Lynn change her mind, abandon this
fiendishly grim existence to which I was
chaining her, and come back to New
York with them.

Dinner was slated for five o’clock or
thereabouts, and by three-thirty the
odors of roasting turkey in the kitchen
oven had pretty well attached them-
selves to everyone’s nostrils. If my
sense of smell was any criterion, Mrs.
Spingler’s cooking job on the turkey
was going to turn into a triumph.

Around four o’clock Lynn went out
into the kitchen to get another kettle
of boiling water from the stove, and
when she came back into the room a
little later with the toddy mix, Mrs.
Spingler moved unobtrusively behind
her. When the cook and handywoman
started upstairs, I knew that Lynn had
told her to get up and see to it that bed-
sheets adorned the mattresses in all the
rooms — a matter which, to my knowl-
edge, had not yet been taken care of.

Along about four-ten, I asked old
Jerem:

“'Well, what do you think of our
humble abode,”

The expression on his face was in
direct and obvious contradiction to his
words. But he replied:

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

“It’s a nice job of remodeling, I must
say. Very cozy, Thomas. Extremely
cozy.” And then he added. “If one
goes for this sort of life.”

Oliver Jerem shot a pointed, pitying
glance at his daughter as he said that,
and the hair on the back of each neck
in the room bristled electrically with
the sudden tension.

“I certainly go for it,” I said, giving
him the only answer that came readily
to my mind, and trying not to be defen-
sive about it. “Yes, indeed. I cer-
tainly do, and I’m sure Lynn will feel
just as I do very shortly.”

The rain outside was gradually sub-
siding and I, felt pretty certain that
evening would find the stars out and
the countryside at its early spring New
England best. I mentioned this fact
to break the silence that followed my
challenging retort to old Jerem.

Tailor’s dummy Walter Lurgar,
Katherine’s husband, came in with both
feet and a black-jack on that conversa-
tional opening.

“That will be good,” he said. “In
fact, Tom, it’ll be a bit of a blessed
relief to me. I’m not too sophisticated
to be superstition-proof, you know.
And the legend I heard in the village
about the history of this old place was
certainly chilling.”

COURSE, every eye in the room
was fixed on the louse. I took a
deep breath and tried my damndest,
my futile damndest, to turn the conver-
sation into another channel.

“Who’d like another drink?” I said
cheerfully.

But no one was paying the least bit
of attention to me; every eye was on
Walter. And he continued as if I hadn’t
said a word to jar him from the track.

“Why, after what I’d heard in the
village, the sight of this place, bleak
and forbidding, outlined momentarily

against the sky as the lightning crackled
through the storm, was enough to — — ”

I cut in again. Loudly, this time.

“You ought to write terror fiction,
Walter,” I laughed. “You must have
a swell imagination to picture a remod-
eled, hundred percent modernized New
England farmhouse as a bleak and for-
bidding ogre’s castle.”

Walter waited me out, a grin on his
face.

“I apologize, old man,” he cut in
when he found a split second. “I didn’t
mean bleak and forbidding, exactly, ex-
cept as a sort of figure of speech. I
mean, I was thinking of the house at the
time when the notorious brigands were
slain here. I was thinking of it during
the period it stayed unoccupied and be-
came to be known around the village as
haunted.”

And so there it was. Out of the bag.
Quite deliberately brought forth, as a
matter of fact. I didn’t have to glance
at Lynn to know that she was staring
at me in wide-eyed horror, and I didn’t
need a mirror to tell me that my own
expression couldn’t possibly conceal
from her the fact that I’d known about
the legend of the house being haunted
and had deliberately kept it from her.

There was one of those silences that
you could have measured with a volt-
meter. Then I heard Lynn ask:

“What is all this about, Tom? What
is Walter talking about?” Her voice
was colder than the heart of an ice
cube.

I did my best to don an amused grin.

“Oh, just some silly local supersti-
tion,” I said. “I’d heard it, but hadn’t
even given it enough thought to men-
tion it.”

“Is that so?” Lynn asked with a ris-
ing inflection that foreshadowed no
good. “Is that so? You heard that this
place was supposed to be haunted, and
you didn’t think it worth mentioning?”

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“That’s right,” I grinned sickly.
“After all, the whole thing was ridicu-
lous. Modern, intelligent minds have
no room for such silly myths as haunted
houses and all that sort of nonsense.
Why should I have thought any more
about it?”

The Jerem family, pop, mom, sis, and
brother-in-law, were sitting back smug-
ly and keeping out of this. They knew
how to play it smart. Walter had start-
ed the ball rolling, and now all they
had to do was sit back and watch it
bounce wildly back and forth between
Lynn and me until we were in the mid-
dle of a bloodthirsty battle.

The situation called for all I could
give it. And I prayed that what I
could give it would be enough, determin-
ing that since Lynn’s family wanted a
fight, that was just what they were not
going to be privileged to witness.

My smile was still frozen on my face,
and I was still waiting for Lynn’s an-
swer. The I-won’t-make-a-fight-out-of-
this attitude on my part had her slightly
stalled, but not completely. At last she
snorted:

“Really, Tom. Even though the su-
perstition is positively ridiculous, to any
one of intelligence, the very thought
that this house is so considered by the
townspeople of Chatam should have
made you have sense enough not to rent
it. Imagine — a house where despera-
does were slain at one time. It’s revolt-
ing. Why, their blood might stain the
earth all around this house.”

T WAS beginning to perspire. I found

a handkerchief and mopped my
brow, stalling for time. Although
Lynn hadn’t put her last statement in
the form of a question, I knew that she
and the rest in the room were waiting
for an answer, or some weak sort of
rebuttal.

“Good lord,” I said, “who knows

how many Indians died on the spot
where Times Square is now located?
Who knows how much of the early
Dutch settler’s blood now stains the site
of Rockefeller Plaza? Why, countless
bleached bones may lie in the mud of
the river bottom under any foot of the
Triborough Bridge. Yet does that keep
people away from Times Square? Does
it make them shudder and shun Rock-
efeller Plaza? Does it make them
refuse to use the Triborough Bridge?
Of course not — it would be ridiculous.”

Old man Jerem came in with his two
coppers’ worth.

“What you say has some truth,
Thomas. But you must remember that
the cases you cited and the instance
under discussion vary a great deal
psychologically. No one thinks in
terms of Times Square as a burial
ground for scalped Indians. No one
enters Rockefeller Plaza thinking that
Dutch settlers’ may have bled and died
on the ground now covered by it. Peo-
ple think of the Triborough Bridge as
strictly a means of transportation. This
is quite a different matter. Apparently
everyone in this locality had attached
an unpleasant, though admittedly stu-
pid, connotation to this place. They
do not consider it as merely a remod-
eled farmhouse; they think of it in
terms of brigands who were slain here
and left some taint, some sort of a —
uh ” he faltered momentarily.

“Curse,” Walter put in obligingly.

“Curse,” old Jerem nodded grate-
fully. “That’s it. Left some sort of a
curse on the place.”

Lynn’s mother, who’d managed to
keep her mouth shut until now, couldn’t
stay out of it any longer.

She shuddered dramatically.

“It’s — it’s positively frightful! I
mean, it’s like living in Madame Tus-
saud’s Wax Museum and having a room
in its famous Chamber of Horrors.”

THE PUCE IS FAMILIAR

Katherine followed through for the
last kick in my face.

“I don’t think so,” she said eagerly,
face flushed in rapt excitement. “I
think it would be thrilling to spend a
night here.” She half closed her eyes
and squeezed her hands together in de-
light. “Just think, the ghosts of the
brigands are undoubtedly supposed to
be walking the house at midnight, or
something. Why, the prospect of meet-
ing them in one of the halls is a positive-
ly thrilling challenge!”

I mustered in as firm a tone as I
could :

“I think the entire topic is silly. And
I think that; if none of you have any
objections, it could be just as well
dropped right now. Frankly, it annoys
me extremely.”

The swift gambit of glances that were
exchanged told me that each of Lynn’s
family was congratulating the other on
having won an important round easily.

I glanced at Lynn, and her expres-
sion was unfathomable, although it
wouldn’t be difficult for me to guess
what was going on in her mind.

Walter rose, smirking at me.

“Certainly, old man. If you want
the topic dropped, dropped it will be.
It’s your place, you know, even though
it is rumored to be haunted.” He turned
to Lynn. “I’ll pop out in the kitchen
a moment and get a drink of water, if
you don’t mind.”

T YNN said she didn’t and Kath-
erine’s husband left the room. It
was at that instant that old Oliver
Jerem coughed and asked if we’d excuse
him a moment, since he had — in other
words— to go to the gents’ room.

That left Katherine, Lynn, their
mother, yours truly, and a great big
bundle of tension.

I lighted a cigarette and tried to look
as nonchalant as the tobacco ads. '

Katherine, devilishly, said : “Murad.”
“And how have you been, Kath-
erine?” I asked, rising and stepping
over to the liquor cabinet to pour myself
a big hooker of straight stuff.

The sounds started coming out of the
fireplace in the next instant. Sounds
coming from the attic, and suggesting
something being dragged around up
there. I froze stock-still, icicles form-
ing on my spine.

“What on earth is that noise?”
Lynn’s mother demanded.

“It comes from the attic,” I said.
“Chimney runs through there.”
Katherine said: “Oh.”

Mrs. Jerem asked: “Who’s up in
the attic?”

I said: “The cook, I suppose.”

Lynn stepped in.

“I didn’t tell Mrs. Spingler to go up
to the attic,” she said. “I just sent her
upstairs to fix the beds. What on earth
can she be doing up there?”

The sounds stopped. I relaxed.
Walter waltzed back into the room,
munching an olive he had evidently
filched from one of the dishes Mrs.
Spingler had been preparing in the
kitchen.

“I’m starved,” he said, tossing the
olive pit at the fireplace and landing it
on the rug.

“It’s this rustic weather,” Katherine
said. “It would certainly play hell
with a girl’s figure if she stayed up
here too long. My, she’d be stuffing
herself ravenously all day long until
she got as fat as a pig.”

I took a deep swig of the scotch.
There wasn’t an angle Lynn’s tribe
were ignoring.

Mrs. Spingler came down the stairs,
then. Lynn looked up as the cook
started across the living room on her
way to the kitchen, and asked:

“What were you doing in the attic,
Mrs. Spingler?”

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

Martha Spingler’s unlovely face
wrinkled in bewilderment.

“Attic? I don’t rightly understand
what you mean, Missus Kelvin. I
wasn’t in the attic.”

The expression that came suddenly
into Lynn’s eyes was not good — from
my point of view. She said :

“Oh, nothing. Disregard it, Mrs.
Spingler. We thought we heard sounds
coming down the chimney from the
attic, that’s all.”

“Wind, more’n likely,” said the cook,
taking leave.

“It didn’t sound like wind to me,”
Mrs. Jerem said helpfully. “It sound-
ed like something being dragged over
a floor.”

“What’re you people talking about?”
demanded Walter.

Katherine obligingly brought him up
to date on the matter, explaining about
the sounds from the attic.

“Well,” said Walter, “well, well. If
Tom hadn’t outlawed the topic, I’d say

that But,” and he grinned good-

humoredly, “we can’t talk about ghosts
and houses that are supposed to have
them.”

Mrs. Spingler’s cry was loud and
stricken.

For a moment we all gaped toward
the kitchen in frozen horror. The
cook’s scream had been blood-curdling
enough to make your hair stand up
strand by strand.

I was the first one out there. The
others followed.

Mrs. Spingler was standing in the
kitchen staring at the open door of the
oven, apparently stricken into statue-
like frigidity by what she saw.

“What’s wrong?” I cried, taking her
arm and shaking her gently. “Tell us,
what’s wrong?”

Mrs. Spingler pointed a dramatic
finger at the oven door and the com-
partment beyond it.

“It’s gone! ” she said. “It’s vanished.
The turkey is gone!”

TN THE moment of silence that fol-
lowed, we all tried to digest that bit
of information as quickly as possible,
by staring into the empty oven.

“Broiler tin and all,” wailed Mrs.
Spingler. “Gone — plain vanished into
thin air!”

Then, of course, someone — maybe it
was me — made the remarks that that
was impossible. Someone else added
that it must have been stolen. And I
turned to see how Walter Lurgar was
taking it. He was, it seemed, as as-
tonished as the rest of us.

But I had a hunch that the lull in the
excitement wouldn’t last long, and took
immediate advantage of it by moving
quietly over to the cellar door, which
was in the right corner of the kitchen,
then to the back door — in the opposite
corner.

A quick glance at the first showed me
that it was locked, and that the key
was protruding on the kitchen side.
The back door was also locked, key on
kitchen side. But I turned the key
quite casually, mentally praying that it
wouldn’t be noticed.

I wasn’t. When I joined the circle
around the oven again I had at least
the satisfaction of having twisted evi-
dence to make a plausible explanation
of the turkey’s disappearance.

Walter went into action, a moment
later. He went to the cellar door, as I
had done, and with his hand on the
knob, asked in sherlockian tones:

“Where does this door lead to.”

Lynn told him the cellar. Walter
saw, then, that the door was locked and
that the key was on his side of it. He
stepped across the room to the back
door.

“That leads out into the back lawn
and garage beyond that,” I told him.

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

Walter glanced down at the key, as
he turned the knob. The door opened
immediately.

“There’s the answer,” I broke in
quickly. “Some sneak thief crept in
here when Mrs. Spingler was upstairs
working, filched the entire bird right
out of the oven, broiler pan and all,
and hit for the woods.”

“I didn’t leave that back door open,”
Mrs. Spingler wailed suddenly. “I left
it locked.”

All eyebrows instantly elevated a
notch.

“And I certainly didn’t touch the door
or the lock while I was back here in
your cook’s temporary absence,” broke
in Walter. “Who else left the living
room.”

“Your father-in-law,” I said mali-
ciously.

“Really!” Mrs. Jerem gave me a
shocked stare.

“But he didn’t come back here,” I
said. The only rvay into this kitchen
is through the back door — which is now
unlocked — and through the dining-room
door. Anyone entering the dining-room
would have to pass through the living
room, and we know no one did that.
Q.E.D. A sneak thief came in the
back door and made off with the tur-
key.”

QLIVER JEREM walked in on the
tail of my summation.

“What goes on here?” he demanded.

Everyone, save your’s truly, told him
at once. When he had finally gotten
the matter straight, he turned on me.

“Good heavens, Thomas, what sort of
country is this out here? Thieves run-
ning rampant, doors miraculously
opened, turkeys stolen, footpads ter-
rorizing decent citizens.”

“You’re a little bit ahead of your-
self,” I said. “No one is terrorizing
anyone as yet, as far as I can see.”

Old Jerem frowned disapprovingly.

“That’s the next step, Thomas, my
boy. You mark my words. I don’t like
this, any of this. Frankly, I knew this
entire idea of yours, taking Lynn from
decent surroundings into dangerous,
savage forests and untold hardship,
would turn out something like this.”

I began to get hot under the collar.

“Don’t talk such nonsense,” I
snapped. “This isn’t far-off Tibet. It’s
civilization of the New England variety,
located less than a day’s drive from New
York City. The forests around here all
full of peacefully grazing cows. The
dangerous Indian trails carry Burma
Shave signs. I’m getting fed up with the
general impression you people are try-
ing to create!”

Old Jerem was staring at me fool-
ishly.

“You arrived in a storm that could
happen anywhere. Your disposition was
ruined because you happened to be
forced to walk through rain and mud for
a mile because of a washed-out roadway
that was an act of God. Now a. turkey
is stolen by some petty sneak thief,
and you try to make it sound like we’re
being stalked down slowly but inev-
itably by Jack the Ripper.” I took a
deep breath. “Nuts!” I declared as
an anti-climax.

I turned my back on them all and
stalked into the living room, realizing
that I’d probably pulled a tactical boner
as far as Lynn’s reaction was concerned,
but glad to have gotten some of my
feelings on the matter off my chest.

I stepped up to the liquor cabinet to
pour myself a Big Joe.

All the liquor was gone. Not a single
bottle was left !

There had been two full bottles, un-
opened, and one about finished. But
now there weren’t any. I stepped back
from the cabinet as though it were alive
and capable of biting.

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

And at that instant, while I was star-
ing aghast at the cabinet, Lynn, her
father, mother, sister and brother-in-
law, trooped into the living room.

“What now?” Jerem thundered, be-
fore I could wipe the expression of
amazement from my features.

Walter helped out by rushing to my
side to gape at the empty cabinet.

“The liquor,” he blurted. “Tom had
two or three bottles there just a mo-
ment ago when we went into the
kitchen. Now there isn’t one of them
left!”

I could gladly have throttled my
brother-in-law by marriage right then
and there. In an instant a circle just
like the one that had formed incredu-
lously before the empty oven had gath-
ered before the empty liquor cabinet.

And then, of course, I saw the note.

It wasn’t folded this time, but it was
written on the same coarse brown
butcher’s paper that the other one had
been scrawled on.

T BEAT Walter in the grab for it by

a split second. One glance at the
crude, scrawling, charcoaled script was
enough to tell me that it was — save for
the message — identical to the one I’d
had left in my topcoat pocket just that
afternoon.

“Now will yew git while the gitting is
good?” it read.

I was crumpling it into a ball to toss
it into the fireplace when Oliver Jerem,
cleverly anticipating my move, snatched
it from my hand.

“Let me see that, Thomas!” he
grunted.

I stood there helplessly, while Lynn’s
father smoothed out the coarse paper
and read the message on it. He read it
once, frowned, then read it again. Then
he looked up and fixed me with a glare.

“What is this all about?” he de-
manded.

I colored, and began to splutter
around for an answer. I knew that
Lynn and the others had all seen my
effort at disposing of the note in the
fireplace, and it didn’t place me in any
light other than that of suspicion.

“How should I know?” was the best
that I was finally able to get out of me.
And from the instant reaction of the
others, I knew it wasn’t especially con-
vincing.

Mrs. Spingler’s hysterical outburst
didn’t exactly save the situation, but at
least it created a diversion.

The cook had come up behind the rest
of us silently, had heard enough to fig-
ure out what this second riot was all
about, and then let out a shriek.

“I am not a-staying here another
minute!” she wailed shrilly. “I’m a-
packing bag and baggage right this in-
stant.”

And with that our unlovely but won-
derfully capable cook turned and made
for the stairs and her bedroom.

“Ohhhhh!” Lynn wailed. “What are
we going to do? Whatever are we going
to do?”

I tried to step into the breech.

“Now there’s no sense in our losing
our heads over two trivial incidents such
as those,” I said. “We can persuade
Martha to stay long enough to prepare
dinner, and ”

“What dinner?” Katherine cut in
acidly.

“Why — ah — uh — we can throw some-
thing together, surely,” I stammered,
glaring at her.

Oliver Jerem cleared his throat an-
grily.

“I presume your telephone is in work-
ing order,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “Sure it is. That’s an
idea. We can call the village and get
the restaurant there to send up some-
thing already cooked to take the place
of the turkey, and ”

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

Jerem cut me off.

“I will call the village to get the town
garage to send a limousine and a tow-
ing truck out here. The first to carry
us to the local train station, the second
to remove my limousine from the mud
your stupidity caused it to bog down
in,” he said. “As soon as they arrive
we will say good-bye, Thomas. We have
had quite enough of this week-end not
to want any more.”

J STARTED to protest that it was
raining outside, and then saw that
the downpour was over. I looked at
Lynn, and became sickly aware of
which side she was on.

“If you care to explain what that note
means, and why you tried to destroy
it,” old man Jerem said, “it would be of
interest to me, although it wouldn’t alter
my plans one iota.”

I shrugged dejectedly.

“I wrote it myself,” I said, “as a
big gag. I ingeniously managed to steal
the turkey out of the oven while sitting
in the front room with Mrs. Jerem,
Lynn, and the rest of you. I am a Mas-
ter Criminal and on cold, moonless
nights I grow claws and howl weirdly
at the sky, blood running down the cor-
ners of my ”

“Tom!” Lynn blazed, cutting me off
and glaring at me disgustedly. “That
isn’t funny!”

“You’re telling me,” I said.

Walter Lurgar piped up then.

“Quite possibly you are behind all
this, old boy. That convertible cutting
us off on the road a mile from the place
— when you knew we’d be forced to
walk fully a mile in the filthy storm —
could have been a premeditated wel-
come note on your part. You might
well have slipped the village idiot five
dollars to make noises in your attic up-
stairs that would come out of the fire-
place and frighten us. Perhaps you

planned to recount the haunted house
legend about the place later in the eve-
ning, when such sound effects, cleverly
built toward that end, would frighten us
out of our wits.”

I didn’t bother to keep the hostility
out of my voice and eyes as I stared at
Walter.

“Is that right?” I said. “You seem
to be full of ideas as to how I play
host. Go ahead, how would I arrange
to have the hooch snitched out of the
liquor cabinet? How would I plant the
warning note in the childish scrawl?”

Walter was glad to give out with
ideas on those angles.

“Simple, enough. The village idiot,
after stealing the turkey from a door
you left open for him, and getting up
into the attic to make noises, just
waited until the commotion about the
turkey started, slipped downstairs, took
the liquor, and left by the front door.
You planted the note yourself, then
pretended to find it when we came
out here.”

I smiled.

“You’re certainly full of ideas for a
pumpkin head,” I told him.

I stepped in quickly and planted a
right hook on Walter’s pointed chin.
He went down to the floor like a tired
sock, to the accompaniment of screams
from Lynn, Katherine and Mrs. Jerem.

I whirled to face the old man.

“And as for you, you old fossil,” I
snapped. “I’d beat the living devil
out of you if you were twenty years
younger. Now make that damned tele-
phone call, and the sooner you leave,
the better I’ll like it ! ”

A ND with that for an exit line, I
x turned my back on them all and
left the room. I passed a muttering,
white-faced Mrs. Spingler on the stair-
case. She had all her things, a suitcase,
a flock of lurid magazines, and a bird

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

cage, in her arms.

“Climb on your broom and blow out
of here,” I suggested.

She continued muttering and went
down into the living room.

I didn’t go to the bedroom. Instead,
I turned to the right and started down
the hallway to Mrs. Spingler’s room.
But that wasn’t my destination. I
stopped at the small door on the left
side of the hallway about fifteen feet
from the cook’s ex-room. It was the
door opening onto the small steps lead-
ing up into the attic.

I was finally getting around to taking
a look up there.

The steps were steep, and the slanted
ceiling low, forcing me to keep my
head down or crack it hard. My back
was aching when I reached the top of
the stairs and was finally able to
straighten up.

The attic wasn’t very large as attics
go. It was, for a width of twenty
feet, high beamed enough to permit
me to stand without stooping. But it
was short. There were windows, small
ones, at either end, and they permitted
enough gloomy gray twilight into the
room to make visibility possible, though
limited.

I looked around most carefully, and
saw exactly nothing.

The place was quite bare.

I walked over to the end where the
chimney passed through from the floors
below and up out of the roof. There
was a small, fireproofed vent in the
brick which would carry sound down
through the fireplace easily enough.

Slowly, I worked my way around the
darkened nooks and corners, not leav-
ing any of them until certain they were
barren. After about five minutes more
of this careful inspection, I was con-
vinced that the place was absolutely
empty.

I sat down on the floor, pulled out a

cigarette, and lighted it. For five or six
minutes I sat there smoking and reflect-
ing on what a horrible mess everything
was in.

Lynn would leave with her relatives,
of course. I had seen her intention to
do just that in her eyes. I didn’t have
to be told.

I looked at the slightly skinned spots
on the knuckles of my right hand and
felt a sour sort of satisfaction in having
at last told Walter precisely what I
thought of him.

But the sensation couldn’t counter-
balance the fact that I’d lost the im-
portant scrap, and that Papa and Mama
and Sis Jerem were walking off with
their daughter.

I thought for a while about how nice
my marital status might have been had
I married an orphan.

And eventually I found myself think-
ing about the Baggat boys.

“You damned stinkers,” I muttered
aloud, “you’ve fixed everything wonder-
fully, haven’t you?”

Of course, I didn’t get any answer,
and hadn’t expected one. I sighed, and
took another deep drag on my smoke,
then crushed it out carefully on the
floor.

“Wise guys, aren’t you, Baggat
boys?” I muttered. “So damn wise
you don’t even now that the siege is
all over and that the posse has gone
home a long time again, and that you
can get out now.”

It was ridiculous, of course. I was
just in the mood for some sour clown-
ing, however, and I went on.

“Sure,” I muttered aloud. “They’ve
all gone home, and you’ve had a per-
fectly good chance to beat it and come
out of hiding after all these years. No
posse, no shooting. Just walk out bold
as brass. Hell, you couldn’t be seen in
broad daylight, for that matter. People
can’t see ghosts.”

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

I got up and started for the steps
leading down out of the attic.

“Do as you please, boys,” I said.

T HEARD the noise behind me just
as I started down the stairs. It
almost scared me into a headlong for-
ward sprawl. Righting my balance, I
turned and saw the coarse sheet of
butcher’s paper lying on the attic floor
less than ten feet away from me.

Of course I almost broke my neck,
swiveling my head around frantically to
locate the person or persons who’d
dropped that note there and made a
noise to attract my attention to it.

But the attic was still as barren as
before. It contained nothing but the
note and Thomas Kelvin; who prompt-
ly picked it up and stared at it in won-
der.

“Why dint sumone tell us this afore?
Tkanx fer the tipoff, pardner. Yew arr
awl rite.”

It was written in the same loose,
childish scrawl that the other notes had
displayed, and, like the other notes,
done with charcoal.

I felt a tiny shiver move up from the
base of my spine until it buzzed the
hair on the nape of my neck. I Stuffed
the note into my pocket, looked once
quickly around the absolutely empty
attic, and bolted down the stairs in
much haste.

As I closed the attic door behind me,
and stood there a moment in the hall-
way, I heard voices coming up the
stairs from the hallway below. Voices
and the faint purr of an automobile
motor.

One of the voices was Lynn’s.

“You’re right, I guess, Father,” she
was saying. “It will be best to leave
with you now. There’s no telling what
he might do if I had to stay here alone
with him.”

My stomach turned somersaults.

“Well, hurry, Lynn. We can’t wait
all evening,” her father’s voice boomed.
“Don’t try to take everything. Just
pack a small bag. He can ship you
the rest of the things later.”

I heard Lynn’s footsteps starting up
the stairs, and I waited there sickly, not
knowing quite what to do. As she
rounded the bannister at the landing
she saw me, stared right through me,
and went on into our room.

I heard her rummaging around in
the closets, dragging out a small week-
end bag, opening and closing drawers,
clicking coat hangers, and making all
the other incidental sound effects nec-
essary to a departure.

Her father’s voice trumpeted sud-
denly from the bottom of the staircase.
“Lynn!”

She came to the door of the bedroom,
and still ignoring me utterly, answered:
“Yes, Father?”

“I forgot my brief case. Important
papers in it. On the bed in the guest
room your mother and I occupied.
Would you get it?”

“All right. I will,” she said.

Lynn walked past me to the guest
room in which her father had stayed.
I was still just part of the wallpaper
as far as she was concerned.

I heard her call out from the guest
room:

“It isn’t on the bed, Father.”

But the old boy downstairs didn’t
hear her,, and consequently didn’t an-
swer.

Then Lynn exclaimed:

“There it is. It fell under the bed.

I see the edge sticking out!”

I heard her grunt in exertion as she
got down on all fours to get at the
briefcase under the bed. And then I
heard her horrified cry of dismay.

pOR GETTING that I wasn’t wanted
around, I made a quick dash into the

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

guest room.

“What’s wrong, Lynn?” I began in
alarm.

And then I saw the reason for her
exclamation of horrified shock. She
was still on her hands and knees, hold-
ing up the cover of the bed to reveal a
briefcase on the floor beneath it and —
behind the briefcase — half a dozen
empty whisky bottles of the brand I
had had in the liquor cabinet before
the theft!

“Jeeeeudas!” I exclaimed.

Lynn looked up in red-cheeked con-
fusion and bewilderment. She forgot
that she wasn’t speaking to me.

“What does this mean?” she asked,
pointing to the bottles.

“Those are the bottles filched from
the liquor cabinet,” I said. “They’re
empty. The stuff has either been
poured out of the window or tippled,
or both.”

“But under Father’s bed ” Lynn

stammered in shocked disbelief.

I shrugged elaborately.

“I don’t accuse people without evi-
dence, baby,” I said. “You draw your
own conclusion from what you see.”

Lynn picked up the brief case and
got to her feet. And the brief case, be-
ing unlocked and upside down, spilled
its contents out onto the floor.

Letters, legal and financial papers,'
envelopes and graphs comprised most
of the briefcases’s ' contents. Part of
same, however, proved to be torn, note-
sized sheets of crude butcher’s brown
paper. A piece of charcoal was also
evident among the mess.

“That’s — that’s the same sort of
paper that threatening note was written
on,” Lynn gasped, “and probably with
that very piece of charcoal.”

Again I shrugged, unable to trust my
voice.

“But then Father must have been
planning to break us up, to get me back

to New York and ” Lynn paused.

“Just a minute,” she cried.

I followed her out of the guest room
into the one adjoining it which had been
occupied by Walter and Lynn’s sister
Katherine.

Lynn’s instinct was unerring. She
made for the closet, threw open the
door. A double turkey broiler pan lay
on the floor of the closet. In it were
bones, Turkey bones, nothing else.

Lynn turned to face me, biting deep
into her underlip, eyes damp.

“Tommy,” she said. “They were
trying to get me to leave you. They
were conspiring against you. Poor
Tommy — you suspected it all along and
you were too sporting to say anything! ”

I shrugged, able to speak a few words,
noncommital words.

“Well, Lynn, I won’t say that, though
I won’t deny evidence.”

“Tommy !” Lynn exclaimed. “It’s so
perfectly clear now. All of it is. Every
bit of it, including the last two years
when they’ve played on my selfishness
to keep both of us under their thumbs.
How can you ever forgive me, darling?”

r JpHE thundering voice that boomed
up the staircase belonged to Lynn’s
dad.

“Are you going to hurry?” it de-
manded.

Lynn smiled grimly at me, then
walked out to the bannister and leaned
over, shouting down to her father. She
had the briefcase, and the contents —
minus the wrapping paper — had been
returned to it.

“Father!” she called sweetly.

I could visualize old Jerem as he
frowned and boomed:

“Yes?”

He undoubtedly poked his head up-
ward at the bannister where Lynn
waited, for the next thing I knew, Lynn
had let fly with the briefcase, and there

THE PLACE IS FAMILIAR

was the thump of the leather object
colliding with skull, plus a bellow of
pain and outraged dignity from Oliver
Jerem.

“Go away, Father,” Lynn said. “And
take the others with you. You can all
come back when you promise to let my
life and Tom’s alone!”

There was quite a lot of sound then.
All of it bewildered and indignant and
coming from Oliver Jerem and those
who waited outside in the hired limou-
sine.

Eventually, the motor started up, and
the car rolled off. By that time Lynn
had been in my arms for five minutes.
She stroked' my arm with her hand, a
little later, and said:

“Am I forgiven, Tommy?”

I thought a moment.

“For everything but that pancake
layer right in the bean. There was syrup
on it.”

Lynn sighed.

“I suppose you’ll hit me sometime
when I’m not looking.”

“I suppose,” I agreed.

There was a silence. Then Lynn
said:

“It wasn’t very flattering, their cook-
ing up a haunted house and ghost story
to scare me away from here and you.
Do you imagine Dad and Walter figured
I’d believe it?”

I figured I might as well tell her the
truth, or part of it.

“The story Walter told about hear-
ing in the village is actually local legend,
baby,” I said. “People around these
parts have really believed this farm-
house is haunted for a long time. You’re
Dad and Walter probably planned to
enlarge on it a little to make me look
like a heel who’d force his wife to live
in a place full of bats and cobwebs and
secret panels.”

Lyrin was surprised.

“There’s really such a legend?” she
said. Then she added: “But of course
it’s ridiculous. Just as you said, in-
telligent, modern people aren’t fright-
ened by such stupidity.”

I nodded sagely.

“Of course not, baby.”

“I thought of the note I’d found in
the attic. The thank you note for the
information I’d spilled in my pseudo-
clowning oration to the Baggat boys. I
thought, too, of the first note, found in
my pocket some hours before Lynn’s
folks had arrived at the place. And, of
course, there had been the ransacking
of my baggage right after we’d arrived.
The Jerem relatives hadn’t been around
when that had occurred.

I grinned, marveling at the skill with
which a pair of ghosts had framed
damning evidence and tied it around
the necks of Oliver Jerem and Walter
Lurgar — just out of thanks for a get-a-
way tipoff that was a considerable num-
ber of decades too late.

“What are you thinking of?” Lynn
asked.

I snapped out of my reflections.
“Ever hear of the Baggat boys?” I
asked.

“No,” Lynn said. “Who are they?”
“Couple of tough monkeys,” I said
vaguely.

“What about them?” Lynn persisted.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “I was just
wondering how in the hell they were
able to hide out without being seen by
the posse line around the house.”
“What?” Lynn frowned.

“Nothing important,” I said. “I was
just thinking, though, that it would sure
as hell have been interesting to be in-
side the bullet-riddled farmhouse when
whatever happened to the Baggat boys
happened, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid,” sighed Lynn, “that I
don’t”

THE END

The Musketeers
In Paris

T HE city of Paris was quiet and
dark. Occasionally the slow
rhythmic tramp of a Gestapo
sentry broke the stillness, and at times
a flicker of light would show from a
quickly opened tavern door as a Ger-
man officer reeled into the blackness of
the street; but occasions like these
were not frequent and through the long
brooding night-hours the great city lay

few. The results of such carelessness
are generally always violent and swift.

The exception to this rule was a
small, slightly built man with an alert
intelligent face and bright eyes that
probed into the dark passageways be-
tween buildings without fear or nerv-
ousness. His attitude was of a man
waiting for something to happen.

And within another block something

The sword in the colonel's hand
licked out in a glittering arc
toward the bound, helpless girl

shrouded under a pall of dark, bitter
silence.

Considering this, the man who
walked with calm purpose along one of
Paris’ dark lanes was an incongruous
sight. He wore no uniform; he was
obviously a Frenchman, and it was sev-
eral hours after the general curfew.
Frenchmen do not walk the streets of
Paris at night. They might move
quietly through dark alleys, their steps
soundless as a cat’s, a gleaming knife
in their hands; but never do they walk
calmly through the streets after cur-

did happen.

A harsh authoritative voice sounded
suddenly from the blackness behind the
walking man; and heavy booted feet
approached on the run.

The little man walked on uncon-
cernedly until he reached a place where
the street intersected a dark alley. The
voice behind him sounded again, angry,
belligerent, and the thudding boots were
closer. The little man stopped then,
in the darker shadow of the alley,
turned and calmly awaited the arrival
of the SS officer.

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

The officer, a young man with small
cold eyes in a narrow face, was panting
from his run. He snapped on his torch
and pointed the beam of light into the
little man’s face.

“Who are you?” he snapped angrily.
“Let me see your papers! You are
French?”

“Yes, I am a Frenchman,” the little
man replied. He squinted against the
light, but his manner was completely
calm and devoid of nervousness.

“Give me your papers!” the SS offi-
cer said curtly, holding out his hand.
“You realize that it is after curfew?”
“Yes,” the little man said, “I am
aware of that.”

The SS officer stiffened angrily.
“You are aware that it is after cur-
few and still you are on the streets.”
He breathed heavily through thin nos-
trils. “You are in very serious trouble.
This matter shall be reported directly
to the colonel in charge of this area.
What is your name?”

“My name is Phillip Poincare,” the
little man said.

r J''HE SS officer was still holding out
his gloved hand.

“I asked you for your papers,” he
said. “Where are they?”

“Papers?” the little man said quietly.
There was the faintest trace of a smile
on his face as he shook his head slowly.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any papers.”
“No papers!” The SS officer’s voice
was suddenly harsh and bitter. “Don’t
tell me you left them at your home!
That is no excuse.”

“I didn’t leave them at home,” said
the little man patiently. “I told you I
don’t have any papers.” He stepped
backward slowly, and the SS officer in-
stinctively moved toward him, a quick
suspicion on his narrow face.

He grabbed the little man by the
lapels of his worn coat and shook him

roughly.

“You think this funny?” he said
harshly. “We shall see how funny it
is when you are strapped to the flog-
ging post of a concentration camp.
Your smart answers then will not be
humorous.”

“I am not trying to be humorous,”
said the little man quietly. “There is
nothing funny in Paris today — for
Frenchmen. We are not laughing, but
neither are we crying.”

The SS officer regarded him care-
fully, a new light in his eyes.

“The colonel will be very happy to
talk with you,” he said, measuring the
words carefully as if he were pouring
acid into a test tube. “He is always
interested in those of you who still think
of resistance and revolt. You will in-
terest him very much.” His lips flat-
tened in a slow deadly grin. “But you
will not interest him very long,” he
said, “because you will not be alive
very long.”

The little man returned the officer’s
smile, and his eyes were as cold as steel
in the winter snow.

“I think you are wrong,” he said. “I
think it is you who will not be alive
very long.”

As he spoke a huge dark shape
moved against the darkness of the al-
ley; a huge dark shape that crept omi-
nously toward the German officer.

“Your threats are idle,” the officer
said, smiling coldly. “A dozen of my
men are within sound of my voice. And
if you move, I will shoot you down the
same instant. Raise your hands. I am
going to search ”

The officer’s voice faded in a chok-
ing gasp. A great powerful arm was
about his neck, pressing with inexor-
able force against his wind-pipe. His
mouth opened and closed desperately
as he fought to cry out, to suck air into
his tortured lungs.

THE MUSKETEERS IN PARIS

Under the pressure of the thick arm
he was bent slowly, helplessly back, his
eyes wild with mad fear, his mottled
face working convulsively.

T HE little man impassively watched
the officer’s frantic, threshing
struggles for a moment, then he turned
slowly and glanced up and down the
length of the dark deserted street.

He continued to watch for several
minutes and he did not turn again un-
til he felt a hand on his arm.

“Mon Dieu,” a voice whispered in
his ear. “These Germans are poor
sport. A hand on the wind-pipe and
they collapse like little children. It is
enough to disgust an honest fighting
man.”

“You did a fine job, Porthos,” Phil-
lip Poincare said. “I wasn’t sure you
had been able to get here. If you
hadn’t I’d have been in a bad way.”

“Thank you, my little Phillip,” the
huge Porthos said solemnly. “What
will we do with the swine now?”

“Is he dead?” Phillip asked.

“No,” Porthos said, “he is still
breathing, but he will be unconscious
for some time.”

“Good,” Phillip said. “Take him
into the alley. Strip him. Take every-
thing. Papers, letters, clothing, rings,
Don’t leave a thing.”

“All right,” Porthos agreed.

“One other thing,” Phillip said, “the
German got a good look at me. I am
afraid he might recognize me if he saw
me again.”

“He will not see you again,” Porthos
said. “He will not see anyone again.”

He turned and his great bulk faded
into the darkness.

Phillip stood at the entrance of the
alley, looking carefully up and down
the street. He heard nothing and saw
nothing, but not for an instant, did his
eyes lose their gleam of steady watch-

fulness.

Phillip Poincare had not always been
so coolly indifferent to the prospects of
violent danger. His life until the last
few months had been so prosaically
commonplace as to be almost a bur-
lesque of conventionality. Sometimes
when he thought of that existence and
the dull routine of his work as an as-
sistant bookkeeper of an industrial
house in Chicago, it all seemed as re-
mote and intangible as the substance of
a half-remembered dream.

As he stood in the darkness of the
Paris street he was thinking of that
existence and the incredible events
which had removed him from it forever.

He thought fleetingly of the memor-
able day on which he had purchased
the antique French bookcase, the pride
with which he had added it to his col-
lection of other relics of the France he
knew so well and loved so much.

But the aftermath of that purchase
had been so startlingly incredible that
he had, at first, thought it was some wild
nightmare he was experiencing.*

For from that bookcase, where they
had been entombed by the Cardinal
Duke de Richelieu, emerged four color-
ful, dramatic figures — Athos, Porthos,
Aramis and most dashing of all, D’Art-
agnan, the leader of the three musket-
eers whose exploits had been celebrated
a century before by the elder Dumas.

* Enchanted Bookshelf, Fantastic Adventures,
March, 1943. In the bookshelf which Phillip Poin-
care purchased was an original manuscript of The
Three Musketeers, by Dumas, containing the. ecto-
plasmic residue of the actual musketeers and D’Ar-
tagnan, from whom Dumas had drawn his im-
mortal characters. Philip Poincare unwittingly
broke the spell of their entombment and they re-
turned to lfe. Their entombment had been accom-
plished by Cardinal Richlieu to save them from
hanging. They became adjusted to the Twentieth
Century quickly, and by their skill and courage
saved a beautiful agent of General de Gaulle from
the hands of Major Lanser, a Nazi, who was
apprehended by D’Artagnan and eventually slain
by Athos in a duel. — Ed.

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

Phillip had never fully comprehended
the miracle of their presence. Without
questioning too much he had accepted
them, learned to respect them and fin-
ally he came to idolize them for their
gay courage that mocked at odds and
smiled at danger.

And most miraculous of all they had
accepted him. And when Athos, Porthos
and Aramis had insisted on coming to
France to fight for their country, he
had asked to accompany them. D’Art-
agnan had stayed with the red-haired
girl who was an agent for De Gaulle
and who owed her life to his magic
sword and cool courage.

The three musketeers had come to
by way of Lisbon and then Spain.
They had been in Paris only a week
but already they had contacted work-
ers of the underground, whose influence
and membership embraced the whole of
France.

Phillip was thinking these thoughts
with only a subconscious awareness;
his main concentration was on the dark
street and his ear was alert for any
sound that might break the sepulchral
stillness.

13 UT nothing broke the silence of the
night and in a few moments Porthos
was back at his side, a bundle of cloth-
ing under his arm.

“I have everything,” he whispered.
“We had better be going.”

“And the German?” Phillip asked.

He could see Porthos’ slow grin
vaguely in the darkness.

“There is now one less Nazi to dis-
honor the soil of our fair France,” Por-
thos said.

Phillip felt no qualms or guilt. He
knew that it was necessary to use the
means and weapons of the enemy if
they ever hoped to destroy him utterly
and completely. And anything short of
that would not be enough.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Follow me,” Porthos said, “I know
the route through the alley as well as
I once knew the way to a fair young
women who lived close to this neighbor-
hood.” He sighed lugubriously. Mon
Dieu, but that was over a hundred years
ago. She would not interest me now.”

“Athos and Aramis will be worry-
ing if we don’t return soon,” Phillip
said.

Porthos grinned good-naturedly.

“They are too worried about the
shortage of wine to bother with any-
thing so trivial.”

Phillip felt a glow inside him and
a sudden sharp sense of happiness that
was almost too much to bear. He took
a long deep breath.

“Yes, I guess you’re right,” he said,
smiling into the darkness.

That was all he said.

CHAPTER II

JpORTHOS rapped sharply, three long

knocks and one short, on the wooden
door that opened on the third floor
landing of the dilapidated house to
which he had led Phillip.

The door was opened immediately by
a handsome young man with a frank
open countenance, warm eyes and a
smiling mobile mouth. His hair was
dark and it swept back from his high
forehead in careless waves.

“Here are the wanderers, Aramis,” he
said over his shoulder to a plump, fas-
tidious, blond young man who was star-
ing pensively at Porthos and Phillip
with bright blue eyes. “My wager is
that they spent their time chasing a
wench instead of doing their work as
true Frenchmen.”

Aramis frowned and plucked a bit
of lint from his shaggy coat.

“What work is more becoming to a
true Frenchman than chasing

THE MUSKETEERS IN PARIS

wenches?” he asked ironically.

Porthos and Phillip entered and
closed the door.

The room was sparsely furnished and
dismal. The only light was provided by
a guttering candle in the corner. Heavy
cloth covered the one window.

“Hold your flashing wit, Athos,” Por-
thos growled to the young man who had
met them at the door. “We have been
chasing rats instead of wenches, wjiich
is pleasant enough in its way, but not
quite so interesting.”

He dumped the clothing he had re-
moved from the officer on the floor.

“The hide of the rat,” he grunted.

Athos went to his knees beside the
pile of cloth.

“May the saints be praised, as the
good Cardinal would say,” he cried.
“A German uniform — an officer’s at
that. Porthos, you will be the death of
me yet. Anyone else would have been
satisfied with just a uniform, but not
you! It must be an officer’s uniform.
I salute you, brother of the ox, you are
magnifique.”

“I had nothing to do with the selec-
tion,” Porthos said. “Phillip lured the
quarry. I simply closed the trap.”

“We mustn’t waste too much time
talking,” Phillip said earnestly. “That
uniform may do one of us for a while,
but the rest of us need clothes and
papers, We’re running a risk every
hour we spend in Paris without clear-
ance papers.”

“You must calm yourself,” Aramis
said. He shook his round blond head
seriously. “These Germans are com-
pletely without imagination or brains,
as they were a hundred years ago when
we ran them through so often and easily
that it grew monotonous. You must
not worry to© much about them; they
don’t deserve such concern.”

“But there are many of them,” Athos
said thoughtfully. “They are well pre-

97i

pared and equipped. I agree with
Phillip. We are not in the best of
situations. We must not underestimate
our enemy.”

“Let’s see which of us this uniform
fits,” Phillip said. “The officer’s papers
and identification are all here. Perhaps
one of us can assume the identity of the
German officer.”

HTHE uniform was to tight for Aramis,
A too large for Phillip, hopelessly too
small for the mighty Porthos, but it fit-
ted Athos almost perfectly. When he
was completely dressed, from glistening
black boots to peaked cap he looked at
them for approbation.

“Am I the perfect German type?” he
smiled. He glanced down at his swas-
tika-emblazoned blouse and grimaced.
“I don’t feel clean when I look at that
thing,” he said.

“Then don’t look at it,” Aramis said.

Athos leafed through the officer’s pa-
pers, then stuffed them into his pocket.

“For the time,” he smiled, “I am
Oberleutnant Mueller of Bavaria, de-
tailed in Paris for an indefinite period
to help enforce the beauties of the New
Order.’?

“Now we must arrange something
for the rest of us,” Phillip said. “The
underground is doing its best to procure
for us papers that will give us the free-
dom of the city. But they work very
slowly. We must make an effort our-
selves to get identification papers.
Without them we haven’t got a
chance.”

“Tomorrow is another day,” Aramis
yawned. “Time enough then to start
worrying.” He looked disgustedly
about the small, dismal room. “The
thought of sleeping again in this sty is
nauseating, but,” he shrugged, “I sup-
pose it must be borne.” His thoughts
shifted to another subject. “Has any-
one made plans for breakfast? We

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

have only a small piece of cheese and
half a loaf of stale bread left. I’d trade
my sword for a bottle of wine,” he said
wistfully.

Porthos laughed, a rumbling chuckle
that set the thin walls trembling.

“This does my soul good,” he said.
“To see the dainty Aramis, the pet of
the women of Paris and the chief sup-
port of half the lace-makers and per-
fumers in the kingdom starving in a
garret and sleeping on a pile of straw.
D’Artagnan would enjoy the spectacle.”
“I wish D’Artagnan were with us,”
Aramis said bitterly. “He wouldn’t put
up for a minute with this foul stinking
hole. He would have silk sheets and
red wine if he had to run through all
the Germans in Paris to get them.”
“Gascon D’Artagnan,” Athos smiled.
“I wonder if we shall ever see our head-
strong cavalier again? I wonder where
he is now and what he is doing?”
“Wherever he is,” Porthos said, “you
may be sure his friends are happy and
his enemies are miserable. And you may
also wager that with him can be found
excitement, danger and a good laugh.”

jpHILLIP was listening to the con-
versation, but he was also listening
subconsciously for any sound outside
their small room. And suddenly he held
up one hand warningly.

“Listen,” he whispered.

From the street below, a faint shout,
harsh and authoritative drifted to their
ears. Athos looked significantly at the
other three and then stepped quietly to
the window that overlooked the street.

Aramis pinched out the candle as
Athos drew back the heavy window cov-
ering and peered down into the darkness
of the street. He turned away a mo-
ment later, replaced the window cov-
ering and smiled thoughtfully at his
three companions.

“The street is being searched,” he

said. “Every room will be inspected.”
He lit the candle and watched its flicker-
ing flame for a moment. “They will be
here very shortly,” he murmured.

As he spoke, they all heard a tramp
of feet on the steps that led to their
room.

“It will take them a little while to
search the floors below us,” he said
quietly.

Phillip said, “They probably discov-
ered the body of the German officer.”

“Yes,” Porthos said, glancing at
Athos who wore tire dead officer’s uni-
form, “and that makes that uniform
useless. • You’d better get out of it and
throw it into the street before they ar-
rive here.”

“I don’t think so,” Athos said quiet-
ly. “It isn’t likely that they have iden-
tified Oberleutnant Mueller as yet. And
throwing away the uniform would gain
us nothing. There are men in the street
below who would see from where it
fell.”

“The rest of us are caught,” Aramis
said. “Without papers we won’t have
a chance. But you must manage to get
away Athos; for,” he grinned wickedly,
“it will be your task to pry us loose
from their clutches.” He chuckled. “I
don’t envy you, friend Athos. We will
sit quietly in warm cells, eating comfort-
ably while you go about the unpleasant
job of liberating us.”

Athos smiled at him.

“Thank you, Aramis,” he said quiet-
ly. “Deserting one’s friends is not easy
to stomach. You are making it slightly
easier for me to leave. If I am lucky I
can escape from here, but saving you
from them may be impossible.”

“You are talking like an old woman,”
scoffed Porthos. “When a thing is im-
possible it just takes a little longer to
accomplish.”

There was a sudden clatter of boots
on their landing and a harsh voice cried,

THE MUSKETEERS IN PARIS

“Open immediately!”

A heavy knock sounded on the door,
repeated instantly by several more.

Phillip looked uncertainly at Athos.

“Open the door, Phillip,” Athos said.

J3HILLIP stepped to the door, quickly
1 opened it, and two husky German sol-
diers strode arrogantly into the room,
their eyes suspicious and alert. Guns
were in their hands.

They swept the room with their
glances and when they saw Athos in an
Oberleutnant’ s uniform, standing coolly
in the center of the room, surveying
them with a cold questioning gaze, their
arrogant confidence fell from them like
a shabby coat.

Their jaws dropped and the guns in
their hands wavered uncertainly.

“Well?” Athos said curtly. His voice
was like the rasp of steel in winter and
his eyes were scornful and arrogant.
“What do you want?”

The Germans awkwardly shifted
their guns to their left hands and sa-
luted nervously.

“We are searching this section, Herr
Oberleunant one of them said stiffly.

“By whose orders?” Athos asked.

“Colonel Rinehart has ordered a
completely search of this neighborhood.
A German has been found dead in an
alley near here, stripped of all clothes
and identification. The colonel thinks
the slayers are in this area.”

“Silence!” Athos said harshly. He
glared angrily at the two confused Ger-
mans. “Are you presuming to tell me
what Colonel Rinehart is thinking?
What company are you from?”

“We are members of the 403 rd from
Berlin,” one of the soldiers answered
woodenly.

“I might have known,” Athos said
disgustedly. “That company has a rep-
utation from one end of Europe to the

other for stupidity, incompetence, neg-
ligence and inefficiency. Get out of
here! You are a disgrace to der Fue-
hrer!”

The soldiers flushed painfully and
shifted from one foot to the other but
they did not move.

“We have orders from the colonel to
search this district,” one of them said
stolidly.

Phillip knew that Athos’ bluff had
failed. For a moment he had hoped it
might work, but he knew enough of the
German temperament to realize that
these two soldiers would carry out their
colonel’s orders to the letter. And when
he glanced furtively at Athos he saw
that the musketeer knew it also.

“Very well,” he said, shrugging, “get
on with your work. Where is your
Colonel Rinehart?”

“He is at the head of the block in a
staff car,” the German soldier said. “He
is waiting for reports on the search.”

“The head of the block? That is to
the left, is it not?” Athos asked.

“Yes it is, Herr Oberleutnant,” one
of the soldiers answered respectfully,
but Phillip noted a curious look on the
man’s face. “I thought the Herr Obcr-
leutnant would know that,” he said,
and the curious expression on his face
was slowly crystalizing to one of open
suspicion.

“I am not interested in what you
thought,” Athos said, and his voice was
like the crack of thin ice. “Must I re-
mind vou again that your job is not to
think?'”

His cold eyes dominated the German
soldier. The man straightened and
stared ahead, his face wooden.

“I am sorry, Herr Oberleutnant,” he
said.

Athos stared at the man for an in-
stant and then turned to the door.

“I am going to pay my respects to
the colonel,” he said, “and tell him of

100

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

the oafs he has in his command. Al-
though,” he added bitterly, “I am sure
he is aware of that.”

OPENED the door, looked once

A at his three companions with a lin-
gering, expressive glance, and then his
boots sounded briskly on the wooden
stairs.

The German soldiers waited until his
footsteps had faded away before turn-
ing their attention to the others in the
room. All of their initial arrogance had
returned almost magically.

“Your papers!” one of them barked.

Phillip knew they would have to stall
somehow, to give Athos a chance to get
clear of the neighborhood. When the
soldiers learned that none of them had
papers, they would instantly mention
the officer who had been in their com-
pany and a drag-net would instantly
be thrown about the section.

He looked blankly at the two Ger-
man soldiers.

“What?” he said. His voice was like
an idiot’s, slurred and dull.

“You heard me,” one of the soldiers
snapped. “Your papers ! ”

“Papers?” Phillip repeated vaguely.
“Oh yes,” he said, his face brightening,
“papers.” He looked down at the floor
and frowned painfully. “We have so
many,” he said, shaking his head lab-
oriously. “We have our identification
papers,” he said, holding up his fingers
and ticking them off as he counted, “we
have our papers for bread, for meat,

for clothes, for shoes, for wine ”

He paused and regarded the German
accusingly. “Such a little wine you al-
low us.”

“Stop babbling!” one of the soldiers
shouted. “We want your papers, all of
them.”

“I have all of them but my tickets
for bread,” Phillip said slowly. “I lost
those yesterday. I was coming from

work and when I paid my fare on the
street car the bread ticket fell from my
hand. It fluttered out the door. I asked

the conductor to stop, but he said ”

“I don’t care what he said,” one of
the soldiers roared. “If you don’t pro-
duce your papers in ten seconds I will
have you thrown in jail.”

“Oh, that mustn’t happen,” Phillip
said, “I will get them for you right
away.”

• “We will get ours too,” Aramis said.
“We do not wish to go to jail. But I
have lost my papers for procuring shoes.
But there are no shoes in shops any-
way, so I suppose it makes no differ-
ence.”

“And I have lost my work identi-
fication,”’ Porthos said unhappily. “My
foreman is preparing a new one for me,
but it is not ready yet.”

“Silence, all of you!” one of the
soldiers shouted. “We are not here to
listen to an inventory of your losses.
I have never seen such a collection of
stupid, drooling, clumsy oafs.”

jpHILLIP was fumbling in his
pockets.

“They should be right here,” he said,
frowning, “I always keep my papers.
You never know when somebody is
liable to ask to see them.” He went
through all of his pockets carefully,
turning them inside out and staring
with vague puzzlement at the flecks of
lint that drifted to the floor. “I can’t
understand ” He looked up sud-

denly, his face suddenly bright. “How
stupid of me,” he cried. “I remember
now. I took them from my pocket when
I came in tonight. They are across the
room under my bed. I will get them
for you.”

“Stand where you are,” one of the
Germans snapped. He motioned to his
companion, “Get his papers,” he or-
dered. “We have wasted enough time

THE MUSKETEERS IN PARIS

101

here already. It is time for action.”

The other soldier crossed the room
and dropped to his knees beside the
narrow cot.

“Where are they?” he asked, scowl-
ing at Phillip.

“Under the pillow,” Philip answered,
but when the German pulled aside the
pillow, he suddenly cried, “No, forgive
me, I have forgotten. They are at the
foot of the bed, inside the mattress.”

The soldier swore and turned to the
foot of the bed. His nose wrinkled as he
dug into the depths of the stale straw
mattress. He fished about for several
minutes.

Phillip slowly released the breath he
had been holding. His whole body re-
laxed. He knew the game was up but he
was also sure that Athos was out of the
immediate section by now.

The soldier turned from the bed, his
face ugly.

“There are no papers here,” he said.

“So!” the other soldier cried, “you
have been lying to us.”

He stepped forward quickly, drew
back his hand and slapped Phillip sting-
ingly across the mouth. Porthos moved
forward instinctively, his great hands
clenching, an angry rumble in his
throat, but the German swung his gun
to cover him.

“Stand where you are!” he said icily.
“I would like to shoot you. It would
please me if you give me the chance.”

He stared angrily, bitterly at the
three men.

“You have tried to make fools of
us,” he snapped. “You will regret that,
I promise you.”

His comrade was standing by the bed
and there was a helpless, sick expres-
sion on his face.

“The Oberleufinant,” he said weakly.
“He was with them.”

The two Germans looked at each
other and their eyes were apprehensive

and filled with sudden terror.

“If he was an imposter,” one of them
said feebly, “we shall be on our way to
the Russian front by this time tomor-
row.”

Aramis chuckled softly.

“I hope you gentlemen like cold
weather,” he murmured.

“Your friend will not get far,” one
of the Germans said. “And you,” he
added, smiling sadistically, “will go
no further than the nearest concentra-
tion camp.”

He gestured to the door with his
gun.

“March out with your hands over
your heads,” he ordered. “Colonel
Rinehart will wish to talk with you.
And that,” he added grinning with
ugly bitterness, “is as close as you can
come to hell before you die.”

CHAPTER III

^pHE musketeers and Phillip spent
that night in a dank cramped cell.
The next morning, after a meager
breakfast, . a guard opened their cell
door and ordered them into the corri-
dor.

“Colonel Rinehart wishes to talk with
with you,” he said. “Follow me. And
don’t try any tricks.”

He led them'up several flights of iron
stairs, down a long corridor and finally
stopped at a huge door that was guard-
ed by a squad of back-clad soldiers of
the Elite Corps.

The guard knocked and the door
was opened by a small black-haired or-
derly.

“Have them come in,” he said.

The room was huge, decorated in
white, and the sun was pouring in from
several windows. A huge swastika
hung at one end of the office and be-
fore this was a large desk.

A man was seated behind the desk.

102

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

He glanced up when the prisoners filed
into the room. He 'smiled and leaned
back in his chair.

“Step up closer, please,” he said
pleasantly. “We are civilized human
beings, and it is easier to talk without
having to shout to be understood.”

Phillip stopped several feet from the
desk, Aramis at his right, the hulking
Porthos at his left. He had a good
opportunity to study Colonel Rinehart
at close range.

The colonel was a man about forty,
of medium height, thin and spare. His
skin fitted his skull without a wrinkle.
His hair was graying at the temples;
his eyes were a deep shade of blue. He
wore a monocle that seemed almost
part of his face. When he smiled, hard
sharp white teeth were visible under
thin lips. An indication of the man’s
character was evident in the painfully
neat desk, the ordered appearance of
everything in the room. A rack of fine
gleaming fencing foils hung against
one wall, but it was the only thing
that broke the stark cold design of
the office. And even the gleaming
steel foils seemed to fit into the icily
sharp order of the room.

T HE colonel was leaning back in his
chair regarding them smilingly.

“You may relax, gentlemen,” he said
pleasantly. “If you care to smoke,
there are cigarettes on my desk. There
is no reason why any of us should be
uncomfortable.” He leaned forward
and placed his elbows on the shining
surface of the desk. “You will find
that I am not quite the ogre I am
painted to be. I am a reasonable man,
fair and just, I think, but on occasion
I can be firm.” He pronounced the
last word with a peculiar emphasis.
“Now,” he said, picking a typewrit-
ten sheet of paper from the desk. “I
have here a complete report on you

gentlemen. Complete, that is,” he
smiled, “as far as it goes. You are
probably part of the underground
movement that is operating in France.
That much we know. You will prob-
ably be deported to concentration
camps on my recommendation. How-
ever,” he said, leaning back again in
his chair and placing his fingertips
carefully together, “I would very much
like to have the name and description
of the man who was masquerading
as a German officer and whom my
stupid soldiers allowed to slip com-
pletely away from them. For that
information I would be willing to pay
considerable. In fact,” he smiled
slowly, “I would even order that you
three be sent to one of the more pleasant
and livable camps in France where
you would be granted certain special
privileges that would make life more
endurable. Rut if you are not will-
ing to cooperate with me I shall have
to be firm.

He paused and watched them care-
fully.

“I might order you shot immediate-
ly,” he said softly, “or I might have
you tortured a few weeks until you
tell me what I wish to know. I have
no desire to resort to either of these
alternatives. I hope I can be lenient
with you. But it is up to you gentle-
men. The matter, you can see, is
out of my hands. What will your
choice be?”

The silence that followed the colonel’s
words was broken by a sharp rap
on the door. The orderly opened the
door and an instant later strode to the
colonel’s desk, a paper in his hand.

“This just arrived, Herr Colonel,
from the Central Headquarters in Ber-
lin.” He laid the paper on the desk
in front of the colonel and withdrew.

The colonel’s eyes flicked over the
papers rapidly.

THE MUSKETEERS IN PARIS

103

“Good,” he murmured. “Excellent.”

He put the paper carefully to one
side and glanced up at the men facing
him.

“Well, gentlemen, have you made up
your minds?”

He stood up and walked slowly
around his desk.

“I am not trying to hurry you,” he
said. “Think the matter over. Talk
it over if you like. I am, you will
find, a most reasonable person.”

TJE STROLLED to the rack of foils,

A selected a gleaming sword from the
case and, holding it at hilt and tip, bent
it double. When he released the tip
the sword straightened like a live thing,
quivering delicately.

“Excellent steel,” Aramis murmured.

“You are a good judge,” Colonel
Rinehart smiled. “Swords are a hobby
of mine. I was fortunate enough to win
the fencing championship of the Imper-
ial army last year with the very blade
I hold in my hand. Do you like
swords?”

“Very much,” said Aramis.

“You are wise,” Colonel Rinehart
said. “A true blade is like a true
friend.”

“But one must know how to use the
blade,” Aramis said.

The colonel smiled.

“One must know how to use friends
also,” he murmured.

He strolled toward them holding the
sword carelessly.

“Naziism is like a sword,” he said.
“Hard, bright and effective. It is not
hampered bj? sentiment or morals. It
does its work thoroughly, quickly.”
He smiled. “Am I being too loqua-
cious?”

“No,” Aramis said thoughtfully,
“but I think your similie is inaccurate.”

He had turned slightly to face the
colonel and while' his plump body was

relaxed carelesssly there was an expres-
sion in his light blue eyes that was as
challenging as a clenched fist.

“Yes?” the colonel said. “And how
so?”

The smile had left his face.

“A sword by itself is nothing,” Ar-
amis said. “It needs someone to wield
it. And its success is determined only
by the skill of the user.” He smiled
quietly. “When the sword of the dic-
tator strikes the sword held by a free
man there can only be one result.”

“I agree with that,” the colonel said,
“but I think we disagree on what the re-
sult is likely to be.” He smiled and
handed the hilt of his sword to Aramis.
“I know you are too wise to attempt
anything foolish. My orderly has a gun
and there are a dozen men within
sound of my voice. I know I’m taking
no chance in letting you feel the bal-
ance of this blade. It is good, yes?”
Aramis flexed the sword and nodded
his head.

“Yes, it is excellent,” he said. “I
am not sure that I ever held a better
blade in my hand.”

The colonel smiled and took an-
other blade from the rack.

“Carrying on our little similie,” he
said casually, “let us suppose for the
moment that you represent the forces
of what you term free men. And let
us further suppose that I symbolize
the power of absolute dictatorship.
We are facing each other, swords in
hand.” The colonel shifted slightly
and his sword rose to guard position.
“Now,” he said, and his voice was sud-
denly mocking, “do you see the stupid-
ity of your statement?”

Aramis shifted his sword to a guard
position, almost touching the colonel’s,
and he smiled coldly.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” he said.

“You are blind, then,” the colonel
snapped. “You have the better blade,

104

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

you represent free men, but I, with an
inferior weapon-, could run you through
within five seconds.”

T50RTH0S suddenly laughed his rum-
bling laugh and stepped away from
Aramis’ side. He waved to Phillip.

“Step aside, little comrade,” he said.

Aramis had not taken his eyes from
the colonel.

“You are very sure of yourself,” he
said. The quivering tip of his blade
lightly touched the colonel’s foil.
“Supposing you prove your point. I
will count five for you, my boasting
friend.”

The colonel flushed angrily.

“You may not have the chance,” he
said.

He moved forward, his legs slightly
crouched. The blade in his hand sud-
denly moved like something alive,
flashing in a tight arc about the tip of
the musketeer’s sword and then driv-
ing like a striking snake.

Aramis whipped his sword back with
the same speed and steel rang on steel
as the colonel’s thrust was parried.

“One!” Aramis counted slowly.

The colonel lunged in again and the
force and power of his drive forced
Aramis back a step, but again his
deadly stroke was countered.

“Two! ’’‘Aramis said.

The colonel didn’t pause to study his
opponent. With superlative footwork
he advanced inexorably, driving Ara-
mis slowly across the wide room; but
he held his lunge, waiting for an open-
ing.

Their blades rang together with a
steady crashing roar as they fought
across the room. Sparks flew from
their flashing swords and still the col-
onel continued to advance.

Porthos glanced worriedly at Phil-
lip.

“The colonel is no amateur,” he

muttered. “It would be better if Athos
or D’Artagnan were facing him.”

Aramis was fighting with his back
to the wall. A bead of sweat broke on
his forehead, but his eyes were cool as
he fought desperately against the colo-
nel’s lighting-fast blade.

The colonel’s- mouth was parted
slightly and his breathing was coming
faster. A glittering intensity shone in
his eyes as he struck and struck again
— crashing vainly against the defense
of Aramis’ skillful blade.

And finally his moment came!

His feint drew Aramis out of posi-
tion, leaving his side exposed.

“Now!” he cried.

He lunged forward, his blade strik-
ing out like the forking tongue of a
snake; but Aramis ducked under the
thrust, escaping it by a hair’s breadth.

The colonel’s blade struck the wall
and Aramis leaped free, swinging about
instantly, snapping his sword into a
guard position.

“Three!” he said, smiling coolly.

r jpHE colonel wheeled from the wall
1 and drove into Aramis again, using
an overhead saber stroke in a slashing,
chopping swing.

Aramis blocked the .cut and the
swords crashed the length of the blades
and locked at the hilt. The colonel
threw his weight against his sword to
hurl Aramis back, but the musketeer
countered the move with his own
weight — and the two opponents came
together, grim-lipped, face-to-face,
over the angle formed by their locked
blades.

“Four!” Aramis said tensely. “You
have but one more chance, Colonel.”

“It will be all I need,” Colonel Rine-
hart cried, panting heavily.

He kinged again, almost blindly and
Aramis turned his blade away with a
flick of the wrist.

THE MUSKETEERS IN PARIS

105

“Five!” Aramis said.

He began a cautious advance, cir-
cling the colonel to the left but he was
smiling confidently.

Perhaps that was why the colonel’s
sudden attack caught him off guard.
One instant the colonel had been re-
treating slowly, but then he lunged to
the left and back again to the right
with lightning speed.

Aramis wheeled but his foil, whip-
ping back to cover his side, was caught
squarely by the slapping downward
stroke of the colonel’s blade.

And it flew from Aramis’ hand in a
spinning arc and struck the floor ten
feet away with a metallic clatter.

The colonel’s orderly grinned trium-
phantly.

“Excellent!” he cried.

The colonel’s blade-tip was grazing
the front of Aramis’ shirt.

“You are an accomplished swords-
man,” he said. “Allow me to salute
you. But I am going to teach you a
little lesson that you will remember
the rest of your life, particularly,” he
smiled coldly, “when you gaze into a
mirror.”

His sword-tip flicked up to Aramis’
face and poised there, a fraction of a
inch from his cheek.

“I,” the colonel said, speaking slowly
and deliberately, “am going to cut a
swastika on each side of your face to
remind you that the free man never
wins against the logical forces of dic-
tatorship. I have already proven that
point to you; now I shall impress it
upon you indelibly.”

Aramis met the colonel’s eyes coolly.

“This is quite superfluous,” he mur-
mured. “I am already completely hu-
miliated.” He sighed heavily and
shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind so
much if you were actually a good
swordsman, but of course you are far
from being even mediocre. Losing is

bad enough — but to lose to an incom-
petent butcher is really quite annoy-
ing.”

“You can’t anger me that way,” the
colonel smiled.

Phillip watched in horror as the
colonel’s sword moved closer to Ara-
mis’ face.

“Wait!” he cried. “You can’t do
that.”

“I beg your pardon,” the colonel
murmured, “but if you watch a mo-
ment you will see that I can.”

J ITS blade moved again, but just as
its tip grazed Aramis’ cheek there
was a sudden knock on the door.

“See who that is,” the colonel said
over his shoulder to his orderly. “And
send him away, whoever it is.”

The orderly answered the door and
turned to the colonel.

“I’m sorry, Herr ”

“Fool!” the colonel blazed, “I told
you to send whoever it is away.”

The door was thrust violently open,
almost knocking the small orderly off
his feet, and a tall slim young man
strode arrogantly into the room.

“I am not accustomed to waiting
rooms,” the new arrival said curtly. He
glared about the room and his eyes cen-
tered on the colonel and Aramis.

“Am I to report to Herr Goebbels,”
he said scathingly, “that Colonel Rine-
hart of Paris has nothing better to do
with his time than practice fencing les-
sons on defenseless prisoners?”

The new arrival was tall, wide-shoul-
dered, and he moved with the lithe grace
of a jungle cat. His peaked officer’s cap
shadowed his face, but his eyes, flash-
ing and hard, were like twin diamonds.

Colonel Rinehart lowered his blade
slowly and faced the young man. His
face was hard with suppressed rage.

“At whose orders do you break into
my offices?” he demanded.

106

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“I am from the Ministry of Informa-
tion,” the young man snapped. “Herr
Goebbels has sent me here to escort
three prisoners back to Berlin for inten-
sive questioning. I wish to leave imme-
diately.” He whipped a sheaf of papers
from his pocket and handed them curtly
to the colonel. “My authorization and
identification.”

The colonel glanced at the papers
and the anger faded from his face. A
worried, nervous frown collected over
his eyes.

“Why does Herr Goebbels want the
prisoners questioned in Berlin?” he
asked.

“I did not ask Doctor Goebbels the
reasons behind his orders,” the young
man said sarcastically “But after my
insight into the strangely juvenile oper-
ation of your office, Colonel, it is not
difficult to hazard a guess. Herr Goeb-
bels wants the job done efficiently, and
he doubtless realizes that that would be
a literal impossibility under your bung-
ling direction.”

Colonel Rinehart sucked in his breath
sharply and his cheeks flushed angrily.

“You will pay for your insulting at-
titude,” he stormed. “I refuse to re-
lease these men until I have talked to
your superiors.”

The young man gestured sharply to
the orderly.

“Get Doctor Goebbels’ office on the
wire immediately,” he said crisply.

‘Wes sir,” the orderly said. He started
for the phone.

“Wait!” the colonel said. His voice
had changed. “There is no necessity
for our being hasty. We mustn’t bother
Herr Goebbels with anything so trivial
as our slight misunderstanding. I am
sure we Understand each other. Per-
haps I was a bit hasty, and for that
I’m sorry.”

“Good!” the young man said. “Now,
where are these men?”

“These three in the room are the
ones referred to in your authorization,”
the colonel said.

The young man glanced from Porthos
to Phillip and finally to Aramis. Then
he shook his head disgustedly.

“A miserable looking group,” he said.

He took off his peaked, swastika-em-
blazoned cap and ran a hand through
his brown curly hair. His features were
youthful and handsome and there was
a curiously humorous glint in his brown
eyes, as if he might be struggling to
keep from laughing.

Phillip heard Porthos draw a sudden
sharp breath; and then Phillip rec-
ognized the slim, brown-haired young
man in the Nazi officer’s uniform and
his heart began to beat with a fierce,
frantic excitement.

For the mocking, insolent young man
who stod nonchalantly facing the col-
onel was the cavalier Gascon from Ar-
tagnan — the bold, cheerful, danger-
loving young man who had led the
musketeers through their most glorious
exploits and whose sword and name had
been known in every corner of France.

He was D’Artagnan!

CHAPTER IV

’IXflTH an effort Phillip fought back
the exclamation of astonished rec-
ognition that almost burst from his lips.
He forced an expression of blank indif-
ference over his face.

Colonel Rinehart said, “Must you be
leaving right away.”

“Yes,” D’Artagnan said emphatical-
ly, “time is of the essence. I must get
started immediately.”

“You will require a guard, of course,”
Colonel Rinehart said.

“That won’t be necessary,” D’Artag-
nan said. “I have my own men in the
staff car. I assure you they will be
more than sufficient.”

THE MUSKETEERS IN PARIS

107

“As you think best,” Colonel Rine-
hart said. “I am sorry you couldn’t
stay longer. Will you please give my
regards to Doctor Goebbels when you
see him?”

“Why, yes, I’ll be happy to,” D’Ar-
tagnan said.

“You won’t forget the name? Rine-
hart. Colonel Rinehart. I’ve met Herr
Goebbels several times but I doubt if
he would remember me.”

“We’ll refresh his memory then,”
D’Artagnan smiled. “Now the name
was Rinewold, wasn’t it?”

“Rin ehart,” the colonel said, with
just a tinge of desperation in his voice.

“I won’t forget,” D’Artagnan said.
“Rinehart, Major Rinehart — that’s
easy enough to remember.”

“ Colonel Rinehart,” the colonel said.

“Ah, yes, I have it now,” D’Artag-
nan said. “And now I must be getting
along.” He nodded to Porthos, Aramis
and Phillip. “Come along, you three.”

D’Artagnan paused at the door while
his three comrades filed through ahead
of him. He glanced back at the colo-
nel, smiling.

“Thank you for your cooperation,"
Colonel Rinehead,” he said. “I shall
see that Doctor Goebbels hears of you.”

“The name is 'Rinehart,” the colonel
said.

But the door of his office had already
closed on D’Artagnan’s smiling face.

D’Artagnan led his charges through
the lobby of the building to the street
where a high-powered Imperial staff
car was waiting at the curb, a driver
and a guard seated in the front.

The guard sprang out and opened
the door when D’Artagnan appeared.

“Thank you,” D’Artagnan said,
climbing into the tonneau. Phillip,
Aramis and Porthos clambered in after
him and seated themselves in the com-
fortable rear compartment.

Porthos began to chuckle, his great

shoulders shaking with his mirth until
the car was rocking on its springs.

“Gascon, you will be the death of
me yet,” he managed to gasp between
chuckles. “I ”

“You will be the death of all of us,”
D’Artagnan said curtly, “if you don’t
control yourself.” He leaned forward
and opened the glass that separated
the front and rear tonneau. “Drive us
to the Metropole hotel,” he directed the
driver and closed the glass partition.

“You are my prisoners,” he said
quietly to his three companions. “You
must' try and act like it until we leave
the shadow of the commandant’s office.
The driver and guard are underground
workers, them we can trust.” He
glanced out the rear window. “I’m not
too sure I fooled the colonel,” he mut-
tered. “He may decide to have us
trailed.”

B UT they turned a corner and no car
had pulled away from the comman-
dant’s building. D’Artagnan turned
around and stared at his three com-
panions, but not for long could he keep
his features solemn. A smile broke
over his good-natured handsome face
and he chuckled aloud.

“Well, that was like old times, com-
rades,” he grinned. He slapped Aramis
and Porthos on the thighs and winked
at Phillip. “Just like old times. These
two horse thieves in danger of losing
their heads and Gascon D’Artagnan, the
faithful friend, there to save them in
the nick of time.”

“Your dramatic entrance,” Aramis
said dryly, “was almost too late this
time. Your timing is slipping. That pig
was ready to carve when you arrived.”

Porthos laughed hugely.

“You should have come earlier,” he
said, slapping D’Artagnan on the back.
“Aramis received a dueling lesson from
the colonel that would have made your

lOS

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

sides ache from laughing.”

“There was nothing funny about it,
I can assure you,” Aramis said gloom-
ily. “That man is a demon with a
sword in his hands. I doubt if even
Athos could stand against him.”

D’Artagnan pursed his lips thought-
fully.

“He must be good,” he said. He
looked up suddenly. “Where is Athos?”
Aramis told him what had happened
as quickly as possible.

“We must try and get in touch with
him immediately,” D’Artagnan said.
“We need him.”

“Do you have any plans?” Porthos
asked.

“Only vague ones,” D’Artagnan said.
“We arrived from Africa only a week
ago. I learned through the under-
ground of your capture last night. They
provided me with this uniform and the
authorization for your custody.”

“You say ‘we’?” Porthos asked,
frowning. “Do you have a tape worm?”
“You resemble the elephant in every-
thing but memory, Porthos,” D’Artag-
nan grinned. “Don’t you remember
the lovely girl with the flaming red
hair we encountered in America?”
“Ah! Yes,” Aramis said. “I have
never forgotten.”

“We are still working together,”
D’Artagnan said. “She is at the Metro-
pole hotel and will be glad to see all
of you. But we can’t waste much time
now. Any minute I am liable to be
apprehended. We must find new quar-
ters, obtain new papers immediately.”

"pHILLIP cleared his throat.

“I noticed something in the colonel’s
office that might be interesting,” he
said. “Do you remember when the
orderly brought the paper into the col-
onel, while he was questioning us?”
Aramis nodded. “I remember.”
“While you were dueling the colonel,”

Phillip continued, hunching forward on
the seat, “I took the opportunity to
glance at that paper. It was an order
of confinement for two French scien-
tists, Lenier and Bordeau. They are
in custody now, but they are being
transferred to a place called the Mont
Chateau under the personal supervi-
sion of Colonel Rinehart.”

D’Artagnan shrugged and studied
Phillip with his keen friendly eyes.

“And how does that affect us?” he
asked.

“Lenier and Bordeau,” Phillip ex-
plained, “were specialists on U-235. I
remember reading that much while in
America. The Germans were desper-
ately anxious to have Lenier and Bor-
deau continue their experiments on be-
half of the Third Reich. Both men re-
fused and were sentenced to concentra-
tion camps.”

“What is this U-235?” D’Artagnan
asked.

“I don’t know much about it,” Phillip
answered, “but it is a potential source
of energy derived from an isotope of
Uranium.”

D’Artagnan grinned and shook his
head.

“We’ll have to take your word for
that. Go on.”

“The successful conversion of Uran-
ium into U-235 has been the big prob-
lem. Lenier and Bordeau were making
great progress in that field and, at one
time, believed that they had actually
solved the problem. Naturally the
Nazis want them to use their science to
aid them in producing U-235. With
U-235 the Nazis would be completely
assured of energy to run their planes,
ships, trains and tanks. They would
no longer need oil.” Phillip paused and
studied the musketeers with serious
eyes. “My guess is that they are going
to make a last, desperate effort to make
Lenier and Bordeau co-operate with

THE MUSKETEERS IN PARIS

109

them. If they succeed it will be a crip-
pling blow to the Allied nations.”

D’Artagnan nodded slowly.

“We must prevent that,” he said
decisively. He frowned. “We must
find out where this Mont Chateau is,
first. That’s where they’re being trans-
ferred, right?”

“Yes, that’s the place,” said Phillip.
“And they are going to be under the
personal custody of Colonel Rinehart.”

Aramis scowled blackly.

“That butcher will plan something
unpleasant for the French scientists,
you may count on that.”

“Marie knows Paris well,” D’Artag-
nan said suddenly. “Possibly she knows
the location of this Mont Chateau.” He
glanced out of the window. “We will
be at the hotel soon. We must waste
no time if we intend to snatch Lenier
and Bordeau from the hands of the
Nazis.”

Porthos grinned contentedly.

“This has the sound of adventure,
comrades.”

D’Artagnan nodded grimly.

“It may not all be enjoyable,
though,” he said quietly.

CHAPTER V

''y^HEN they drove up to the canopy
? of the Hotel Metropole, the guard
in the front seat climbed out and strode
into the lobby.

“Just a precaution,” murmured D’Ar-
tagnan, as they waited his return. “He
will see that things are all right lest we
stick our necks into a noose.”

In a few moments the guard was back
and it was instantly apparent from his
tight worried features that something
was wrong.

He opened the rear door and leaned
close to D’Artagnan.

“The Gestapo have caught up with
us,” he said tensely. “They have Marie

in the lobby now, questioning her.
You’ve got to get out of here.”

“Not without Marie!” D’Artagnan
snapped. “Come, comrades, this is a
job for us.”

“You can’t go into that lobby,” the
guard insisted desperately. “They’re
waiting for you. They know Marie has
an accomplice mid they know he dressed
as a German officer. Step through the
door and you’ll be a dead man.”

“I have been told that before,”
D’Artagnan said coolly, “but I am not
dead yet.” He stuck a leg out the door
of the car. “Is anyone coming with
me?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Wait,” Phillip said anxiously. Stay
here, D’Artagnan. Porthos and I will
go in. They won’t be expecting us.
They don’t know us by sight. You keep
the motor running. When we come
back out we’ll have Marie with us, but
we’ll be in a hurry.”

“That is excellent,” Porthos said
cheerfully. He shoved D’Artagnan gent-
ly aside with one huge hand, “Little
Phillip and I will handle this.”

Phillip climbed out of the car after
Porthos.

D’Artagnan watched them worriedly.
“I think I had better go, too,” he
muttered.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Phil-
lip. “In fact, your presence would ruin
things for Porthos and me. Just be
ready to leave when we return.”

He turned and, with the lumbering
Porthos at his side, 'walked into the
lobby of the hotel. He spotted Marie
instantly. She was standing between
two heavy-set men who were watching
the main door closely. They were
standing directly in front of a pillar
which was flanked by two huge palms.

“Walk straight ahead,” Phillip said
from the side of his mouth to Porthos.
“We must come up on them from the
rear.”

110

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

They continued straight ahead and
the two Gestapo agents after a brief
glance at them, turned their attention
back to the door.

Phillips didn’t know whether or not
Marie had recognized them. Her eyes
had met his for a flickering instant, but
had turned away immediately.

Phillip stopped when the angle of
the pillar hid them from the Gestapo
agents. The desk clerk was watching
them suspiciously and Phillip knew they
would have to act immediately.

He turned and walked swiftly to the
right until he was behind the pillar.
He was only a half dozen feet from
the girl when he stopped.

He whispered to Porthos, “I will step
in front of the pillar and draw their at-
tention.” He smiled and patted the
giant musketeer on the arm. “You
know what to do. Luck.”

Porthos grinned.

“This is becoming a specialty of
ours.”

JpHILLIP nodded and then, erasing
all expression from his face, he
strolled calmly around the pillar to the
side of the Gestapo agent who stood on
Marie’s left.

The agent glanced at him suspicious-

ly .

Phillip paid no attention to the man,
but stood calmly at his side, rocking
slightly on his heels and whistling tune-
lessly.

The agent tapped his arm sharply.

“Move on,” he growled. “You are in
the way.”

Phillip turned slowly and regarded
the man with polite surprise.

“In the way?” he repeated, frown-
ing in obvious puzzlement. “In whose
way, may I ask?”

From the corner of his eyes he saw
Porthos moving like a great shadow

around the other side of the pillar. He
didn’t risk a look at Marie. He was
afraid his eyes would give him away
if he did.

“You are In my way,” the agent
snapped. “If you don’t want trouble,
get along.”

The agent on the other side of Marie
stepped to his companion’s side. He
stared with icy suspicion at Phillip.

“What is the matter?” he demanded
in a thick guttural voice.

“Nothing,” Phillip said calmly. “If
you gentlemen don’t wish me to stand
here I certainly won’t.”

They were both facing him now and
over their shoulders Phillip saw Por-
thos come slowly into view around the
pillar. He moved with the stealth of
a great cat past Marie, his eyes fixed
on the necks of the two Gestapo agents.

“Get moving!” the heavy-voiced
agent snapped.

“With pleasure,” Phillip smiled. He
made a move to turn and then said
politely, “Do either of you German
dogs have a match?”

The two agents stared at him as if
they doubted their ears, while angry
blotches of color coursed into their
faces.

“You French swine!” one of them
cried in a strangling voice. “You shall
pay for your insolence.”

The both started toward him, but
before they could take a step, Porthos’
great arms were suddenly about their
necks. Their shocked cries were cut
off instantly by the pressure of his
grip. The giant musketeer spread his
legs to give him leverage and then
suddenly jerked their heads together
with terrific force.

The sound as their heads banged to-
gether was like the cracking of a rot-
ten nut.

Marie stepped quickly to Phillip’s
side.

THE MUSKETEERS IN PARIS

111

“Thank God, you came,” she said.
“Where is D’Artagnan?”

“He is outside,” Phillip said quickly.
“We’ve got to get out of here.”

Porthos stretched the two Gestapo
agents on the floor.

“Let’s go,” he said.

npHE three started across the lobby

1 lobby toward the door, but they
hadn’t covered a dozen feet before a
shout sounded behind them. The desk
clerk was yelling frantically at a puz-
zled-looking German soldier who was
standing negligently beside the door.

“Stop them!” the desk clerk cried.
He had evidently seen what had hap-
pened.

The soldier straightened up, his face
losing its dullness.

He stepped in front of Porthos.

“One minute,” he said sharply.

Porthos didn’t bother to answer.
His mallet-like fist snapped out from
his shoulder, exploding on the point of
the German soldier’s jaw. The man
went down in a crumpled heap.

Phillip charged through the door,
dragging Marie witih him.

D’Artagnan threw open the rear door
of the car, and the driver gunned the
motor.

Porthos was last through the door.
Phillip helped Marie into the tonneau,
jumped in behind her and helped haul
Porthos onto their laps as the car
roared away from the curb with lurch-
ing, screeching speed.

There were five in the rear of the
car but they managed to straighten
themselves out as the car sped through
the practically deserted streets of
Paris.

Marie, eyes shining, red hair stream-
ing in the breeze, turned and impul-
sively kissed Aramis, Porthos and Phil-
lip.

“It’s wonderful to see you again,”'

she cried. She turned anxiously to
D’Artagnan. “The Gestapo is after
us now, my Gascon. They trailed the
underground worker who brought you
the Nazi uniform. We’ve got to get
out of Paris for a while.”

“We have a job to do first,” D’Ar-
tagnan said. “Do you know where the
Mont Chateau is?”

“The Mont Chateau?” repeated Ma-
rie. Her fine arched brows drew to-
gether in a faint frown. “I have heard
of it,” she said. “I think it is a castle
on the northern outskirts of the city.
Yes,” she said, nodding decisively, “I’m
sure that’s it. It is being used as quar-
ters for several high-ranking Nazi of-
ficers. Why do you ask?”

D’Artagnan grinned.

“Because, my pet, the Mont Cha-
teau is our next stop.”

He told her quickly of their plan to
free the French scientists, Lenier and
Bordeau, and when he finished, her
eyes were glowing with excitement.

“That would be wonderful,” he cried.
“If we can accomplish that it matters
not whether we live or die. That would
be worth dying for. I’ll give the driver
the dirctions. We can be there in a
hour or so.”

“We’ll wait until darkness to enter
the castle,” D’Artagnan said.

Aramis asked, “How will we get into
the place?”

“Getting in shouldn’t be too dif-
ficult,” D’Atragnan said thoughtfully.
“But,” he continued with a wry grin,
“we may find getting out considerably
more of a problem.”

CHAPTER Vi

'Y^/'HEN night fell on the blacked-
out section of the environs of
Paris where Mont Chateau was lo-
cated, a slowly moving German staff
car approached the gates that guarded

112

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

the great vast bulk of the castle and
came to a stop.

Sentries sprang immediately from
the darkness, but their air of challeng-
ing truculence faded when they peered
into the tonneau and met the cool eyes
of a slim young man wearing the uni-
form of a high-ranking Nazi.

“Will you have the gate opened,
please?” the young man asked. “We
are expected.”

The sentry stared from the young
man to the girl and the huge man who
sat on either side of him.

“All of you, Mein Herr?” the sentry
asked.

“Naturally. Open the gates!”

There was a crisp snap of authority
in the young man’s voice and the sen-
tries saluted and faded back into the
darkness. Their voices sounded and in
a few moments the great metal barrier
creaked . noisily open .

Phillip, seated beside Aramis in the
front seat, breathed a sigh of relief.

“So far, so good,” he muttered.

He released the clutch and the car
slipped slowly through the gates and
into the dark lane that wound through
the grounds of the estate to the great
castle known as Mont Chateau.

They drove on for several hundred
yards in silence until Phillip saw the
castle ahead of them, looming ominous
and huge against the dark night.

He brought the car to a quiet stop.

The grounds of the castle were dark
and silent, except for the cold whisper-
ing wind in the trees. And faintly they
could hear the tramp of sentries pa-
troling the estate.

“What now?” Phillip whispered.
“We can’t stay here much longer.”

“We must separate,” D’Artagnan
said. “We have a better chance of lib-
erating the Frenchmen that way. If
one group of us is caught the other
can still carry on. Marie and I will

make a frontal attack on the castle.
We will enter boldly as befits a Nazi
officer and his lady. Possibly we can
use the same trick that we used in free-
ing you from Colonel Rinehart. Phil-
lip, you, Aramis and Porthos must
manage to force an entry to the cas-
tle somehow, and locate the cells or
rooms where the French scientists
are being held. We shall have to trust
to the good Lady Luck, once we are
inside.”

Phillip put the car in gear and drove
slowly toward the castle. He stopped
long enough before the steps that led
to the massive door to allow D’Artag-
nan and Marie to step out. Then he
drove on again into the darkness. . . .

TVARTAGNAN waited until the
car’s dark bulk had disappeared
down the lane before knocking loudly
on the solid heavy timbers of the door.

He gripped Marie’s arm with his
other hand.

“Courage,” he said softly.

She met his eyes calmly.

“I am not afraid.”

A moment later the massive door
swung back, and a stocky, dark-haired
soldier in a corporal’s uniform stood in
the doorway.

“Good evening,” D’Artagnan said.

“The gate sentry mentioned anoth-
er,” the corporal said suspiciously.
“Where is he?”

“In the car with the driver,” D’Ar-
tagnan answered carelessly. He took
Marie’s arm and stepped through the
door, brushing the corporal aside. He
took off his outer coat and hat and
handed them to the man.

“Will you please tell your com-
mander that I am here?” he said. “My
business is urgent.”

The corporal looked down in help-
less anger at the coat and hat in his
hands and with a glowering face strode

THE MUSKETEERS IN PAMS

113

away to disappear through a large door
that led off the main hallway.

D’Artagnan glanced around appre-
ciatively. The hall was wide and spa-
cious, furnished in burnished mahog-
any that looked a thousand years old.
A wide curving staircase led from the
hall to the upper sections of the castle,
and on the first landing a knight’s ar-
mor gleamed dully in the gloomy light.

“Very nice,” he murmured to Ma-
rie.

Marie shivered. “It’s too dark and
gloomy for me,” she said.

The corporal returned. He looked
at them impassively, but D’Artagnan
noticed that a peculiar flush of excite-
ment seemed to flush his cheeks.

“The commandant will see you im-
mediately,” he said. “Will you follow
me, please?”

“Thank you,” D’Artagnan said. He
had the feeling that he was sticking his
head squarely into a noose, but that
couldn’t be helped.

The corporal led them across the
polished floor to two great doors. He
opened one of the doors, stepped aside
and bowed slightly.

“Will you please go in?”

D’Artagnan hesitated for a second.
He searched the corporal’s face but
the man was staring directly ahead,
standing at rigid attention. He
shrugged philosophically and, taking
Marie’s hand in his, sauntered through
the opening.

The room he entered was large,
book-lined and not very well lighted
by a chandelier that hung from the
high arched ceiling.

D’Artagnan paused inside the door.
The room seemed to be deserted; but
he felt a strange, intuitive premonition
that caused his muscles to tense in-
stinctively.

A voice to his left said, “It’s nice to
meet you again, my young friend.”

D’Artagnan turned slowly.

Standing to one side of the door, a
grim smile on his hard, bitter face was
Colonel Rinehart.

And in his hand he held a Luger that
covered his visitors unwaveringly.

CHAPTER VII

J^’ARTAGNAN studied Colonel
Rinehart’s bitter eyes and he
knew that the Nazi was aware of his
deception. He smiled and shrugged.

“How do you, Colonel,” he said.
He glanced at the gun in the Nazi’s
hand and shook his head accusingly.
“You weren’t so inhospitable the last
time we met.”

Colonel Rinehart strolled forward,
still smiling.

“You made a. fool of me on that oc-
casion,” he said. “I admit that. My
superiors were not very tolerant of my
mistake. My career may have been
hurt irreparably by my error in releas-
ing three important prisoners to a coun-
terfeit German officer. And that,” he
said, smiling coldly, “is why I am so
happy to meet you again. I don’t know
why you walked straight into my arms,
but I assure you I am most grateful.”

He nodded over D’Artagnan’s shoul-
der to the corporal who had entered
the room.

“Take this young man down to the.
dungeon with the others,” he ordered.
There was a speculative light in his eye
as he turned to Marie and studied her
slim body and classic features carefully.
He smiled thoughtfully. “You, my dear,
will remain with me for a while. I will
question you personally.”

The corporal stepped close to D’Ar-
tagnan and jammed a gun into his back.

“Come with me,” he growled.

“And by the way,” the colonel said, as
D’Artagnan was being led toward the
doer, “I wouldn’t depend too much on

114

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

your friends. They have already been
placed in custody by my guards.”

“You are holding all the cards, it
seems,” D’Artagnan said quietly. “But
let me give you one piece of excellent
advice, Colonel Rinehart.” His voice
was suddenly like iron and his eyes
flashed like rapiers in his lean face. “If
you harm a hair of this girl’s head, there
won’t be a place in hell deep enough to
hide you from me. Remember ! ”

“You are hardly in a position to make
threats,” Colonel Rinehart said mock-
ingly.

“Remember!” D’Artagnan said again
with terrible emphasis.

The corporal’s gun prodded him in
the back and he stepped through the
door. The corporal closed it and pointed
ahead to a long, dimly lit corridor.
“Straight ahead,” he ordered.

D’Artagnan walked to the end of the
corridor. The corporal unbolted a door
and ordered him down a flight of wind-
ing iron steps that led to a vast, stone-
walled room. When D’Artagnan reached
the bottom of the steps the first sight
that met his eyes brought to him a feel-
ing of black despair.

For Aramis, Porthos and Phillip were
lined against one wall, secured by thick
leather straps that cut across their
chests and legs, pinioning them helpless-
ly to the massive stone wall.

'"jpHEY glanced up when D’Artagnan
was prodded into the room and
Aramis smiled faintly.

“Lady Luck has forsaken us for an-
other swain,” he said wryly.

“Welcome to our cheerful little
group,” Porthos said.

D’Artagnan was silent as the corporal
forced him against the wall and jerked
straps into place across his chest, pull-
ing them up so tightly that he could
hardly breathe. Another strap buckled
securely around his knees and he was

bound helplessly — unable to move hand
or foot.

The corporal sneered at the three
helpless men.

“You will wish you were dead by
this time tomorrow.”

He turned, and they could hear him
chuckling softly to himself as he
mounted the winding steps.

“Well, comrades,” D’Artagnan said,
when they were alone, “this seems to
be rather a tight spot.”

He glanced about the room. Directly
in front of them was a rectangular scaf-
folding and from the cross-bar iron
manacles hung. The stone floor at the
base of the scaffolding was spotted with
brown stains. On the opposite wall was
a rack of leather whips.

D’Artagnan raised one eyebrow
ironically.

“The gentle Germans obviously use
this place to introduce to their enemies
the delights of the New Order,” he
said sarcastically.

Arranged about the room were other
instruments of torture; and several
heavy scimitars, sabers and swords were
hung at intervals along the wall.

“Cheerful little place, isn’t it?” Ara-
mis said.

“We’ve got to get out of. here,” D’Ar-
tagnan said grimly. “Have any of you
heard anything of the French scientists
we came to liberate.”

“I heard one of the guards mention
them,” Phillip said. “They are impris-
oned in a room upstairs.”

D’Artagnan said, “Porthos, have you
tried your strength against your
bonds?”

“Yes,” Porthos grunted, “but they are
too stout. I can’t get an inch of lever-
age.”

They w T ere silent for several moments
and then they heard footsteps on the
iron staircase. A moment later Colonel
Rinehart stepped into the room. D’Ar-

THE MUSKETEERS IN FARiS

115

tagnan noticed instantly that there was
a long scratch on his right cheek. He
looked to be in a towering rage.

Marie was dragged into the room
after him by the swarthy corporal and
another thick-set German soldier who
wore the uniform of an Elite guardsman.

“String her up!” the colonel ordered
savagely. His hand moved to the long,
livid scratch on his cheek. “We’ll see
if a lashing will cool her spirit.”

T HE German soldier dragged the
slim red-haired girl under the scaf-
folding, snapped the manacles about
her wrists and pulled her arms above
her head until the tips of her shoes were
barely scraping the ground.

“Do with me what you like,” she
said quietly, “I have no information to
give.”

“We shall see if you don’t change
your mind after a while,” the colonel
said.

“Remember what I told you,” D’Ar-
tagnan said softly, his eyes on the
colonel’s face.

“Naturally,” the colonel smiled, “you
wouldn’t want the young lady hurt, She
is attractive and full of life, her skin
is so soft and white it would be a pity
to ruin all that loveliness.” He sighed
and shook his head. “Yes, indeed, it
would be a pity to use a leather whip
on her bare back, and so unnecessary
too. If any of you gentlemen care to
become communicative we might be
able to spare her the unpleasantness of
having the skin lashed from her back.
What do you say? Are you willing to
start talking?”

“Don’t tell him anything,” Marie
cried. “It doesn’t matter what happens
to me.”

Colonel Rinehart smiled at the mus-
keteers.

“Possibly you don’t think I am ser-
ious,” he murmured. “Maybe you think

I am only bluffing, that I wouldn’t be
so callous as to torture a helpless girl?”
He stopped smiling and his face was
stonily hard. “Let me assure you that
I have no scruples. I will do what is
necessary to get the information you
possess, regardless of the means I must
use.”

He strolled to the wall and selected
a light, delicately balanced sword and
flexed it slowly, watching it snap and
twist with idle, amused eyes.

“Perhaps a lashing wouldn’t be quite
dramatic enough,” he murmured.
“Maybe you would be more impressed
if I displayed my skill with the sword
on the person of the young lady.”

He strolled slowly toward the scaf-
folding where Marie was hanging help-
lessly.

“Don’t be nervous, my dear,” he
smiled. “I won’t hurt you. Until I’m
ready, that is,” he added.

“Nothing you can do will make me
talk,” Marie said scornfully.

“It is gratifying to hear you say so,”
the colonel said mockingly. “I like peo-
ple with spirit. The ultimate victory is
much more satisfying when you feel
you have faced a worthy opponent.”

The sword in his hand suddenly
struck forward like a snake, describing
a flashing arc that no eye could follow.
The point of the blade slashed across
the girl’s forehead, grazing the skin
by a feather’s width.

Tk/fARIE cried out instinctively and
jerked back from the blade, the
cords in her slender neck straining.

The colonel bent and picked up a lock
of red hair from the floor. He held it
out for the girl to see.

“You mustn’t be alarmed,” he smiled.
“I just wanted to remove the lock of
hair that had fallen over your forehead.
I can, of course, come much closer.”

He turned languidly to the musket-

116

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

eers, who were staring at him in open
hatred.

“Are any of you gentlemen feeling
talkative?”

D’Artagnan glared at him with blaz-
ing eyes.

“Give me a blade in my hand, you
butcher, and I will make ribbons out
of your carcass!”

The colonel smiled. “Your comrade
had that chance; you would do no bet-
ter than he. At the risk of sounding
boastful, I consider myself the finest
swordsman in the world today. That is
why my little exhibition is going to be
so interesting. I will not be crude when
I start working on the young lady. She
will be aware of every stroke, of every
slice, of each separate cut, until the
very last.”

He turned back to the girl, the sword
in his hand moving slowly,

Marie shrank back from the blade,
staring at it with agonized fascination.

“But you are not to be alarmed! ” the
colonel cried mockingly. “You are not
afraid of me, or what I will do. You
have said so yourself. Courage, Frau-
lein, I will be delicate, I promise.” His
blade moved in a slow, deliberate arc
as it neared her white, taut face. “You
needn’t fear a bungling job from the
greatest swordsmen in the world.”

There was a quiet laugh from the
shadows at the far end of the room.

“You have said that twice, mon amif
a cool voice said from the darkness.
“Will you permit me the luxury of
doubting you?”

The colonel had wheeled at the
sound of the laugh, his eyes stabbing
the darkness at the end of the room. He
gestured sharply to his two soldiers.

“Draw your guns ! ” he snapped.

The swarthy corporal fumbled at his
belt, then turned a red, guilty face to
Colonel Rinehart.

“We left them upstairs,” he stam-

mered. “We didn’t think we’d need
them.”

“Fools!” the colonel shouted. “Arm
yourselves ! Take swords from the wall,
both of you.”

The men sprang to obey his order,
while the colonel continued to stare ner-
vously into the shadows.

“Worried, Colonel?” The pleasant
voice from the shadows was gently
mocking. “That isn’t the proper at-
titude for the greatest swordsman in
the world.”

Porthos was staring at D’Artagnan
with an incredulous expression of ec-
static relief on his broad face.

“Could it be possible?” he mur-
mured under his breath.

D’Artagnan was staring at the dark
end of the room, his face blazing with
hope and excitement.

“It could be none other!” he cried.

T HE shadows at the end of the room
seemed to dissolve as a man walked
slowly into the light. He was tall,
with frank, open features, soft eyes and
a generous, mobile mouth. A sword
hung negligently at his side, incon-
gruous with the coarse clothes he was
wearing.

He bowed mockingly to the colonel
and his eyes, strangely, were no longer
soft. They were as hard as flint.

“At your service, Colonel,” he mur-
mured.

“Athos!”

Porthos cried the name out, his voice
filled with exultant joy.

Athos turned slightly, smiled and
nodded at the musketeers.

“Greetings, comrades,” he said. He
gestured negligently toward the colonel.
“When I have split this Prussian pig
on my blade I will release you, have
no fear.”

The colonel’s blade suddenly flashed
to a guard position. His pale, smooth

THE MUSKETEERS IN PARIS

117

cheeks were flushed with bitterness.

“You filthy peasant,” he sneered, “I
will teach you the penalty for your in-
solence.”

He motioned to the two soldiers who,
beside him, blades drawn, faced Athos.

“Advance with me,” he ordered. “I
could cut the dog down myself, but I
have not the time to waste.”

Athos grinned as he drew his sword
with a slow, deliberate motion.

“The greatest swordsman in the
world requires two assistants to duel
a French peasant,” he said mockingly.
“Well, perhaps you will need them.”

The colonel stepped back a pace.

“Charge him!” he suddenly ordered
his two soldiers.

They sprang forward at his com-
mand, swords driving at the cool young
man who faced them.

Athos stepped forward, his sword
flashed to the right, back to the left —
steel rang on steel twice and the swords
of the soldiers were suddenly flying
through the air.

The soldiers stared stupidly, unbe-
lievingly, at their empty hands.

Athos’ sword flicked under their
noses.

“Back up, my clumsy oafs,” he said,
and he was not smiling. He nodded
at the colonel. “It is your turn, mon
ami,” he murmured.

“Watch him carefully, Athos,” Ar-
amis counseled. “He bested me.”

Athos smiled briefly.

“Not meaning to disparage you, my
dear Aramis,” he said, “but you were
never a competent swordsman. If the
good colonel musters up enough cour-
age to fight, I will show you an example
of superb dueling.”

“Your modesty is overwhelming,”
Aramis said, shuddering.

Y^OLONEL Rinehart moved forward
slowly, his sword held carefully,

watching Athos with narrowed eyes,

Athos moved in and soon their
swords touched, clashed and flicked
away. The colonel drove in suddenly,
but his sword was turned aside easily
by Athos’ blade. He drove in again,
forcing Athos back a step, his sword
flashing in wicked, skillful arcs as it
fought to break through the other’s
defense.

' “Excellent work,” Athos commented.
“Excellent, that is, for a student of
about nine.”

His sword suddenly flashed under
his opponent’s guard and the tip slit
the colonel’s uniform from throat to
waist. He drove again, forcing the
colonel back three frantic steps, and
his blade was dancing before the
colonel’s eyes like a snake about to
strike.

“You realize,” he said coolly, “that I
can kill you anytime I choose?”

His blade flashed again, slashing
across the colonel’s cheek, drawing
a thin line of blood. The colonel re-
treated again, his eyes pools of terror
in the whiteness of his face. He
fought desperately, wildly, against the
flashing, blinding attack, but his eyes
mirrored futility.

A line of blood was drawn on his
other cheek, another on his forehead,
as Athos’ flicking blade slashed twice
with incredible speed.

The colonel shouted frantically to
his soldiers.

“Help me! Keep this demon away
from me. Pick up your swords, you
fools!”

The soldiers scrambled for their
swords and then closed in on Athos
again, forming, with the colonel, a semi-
circle of steel.

Athos backed away slightly. He
was at a serious disadvantage. If he
tarried too long with any one antag-
onist, he would be leaving his side and

118

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

back exposed to deadly thrusts from
the- other two.

His eyes narrowed and his face set
in hard, purposeful lines.

“You are forcing me to be abrupt,”
he murmured.

He sprang to one side. His leap
brought the corporal closing in on his
side. He swung back, dodged the cor-
poral’s clumsy thrust and ran his blade
through the man’s heart

He had withdrawn the blade and was
leaping for the second soldier before
the corporal started to fall. The sec-
ond soldier screamed— and his scream
broke in a horrible gurgle as Athos’
deadly blade pierced his throat.

Colonel Rinehart had lunged in,
striking swiftly at Athos’ unprotected
side, but his blade cut through Athos’
sleeve, missing his body by a scant
inch.

He jerked the sword free with an
oath and lunged again— and that was
his last conscious act on this earth.
Athos deflected the blade with a turn of
his wrist and drove forward, his own
blade stabbing deeply into the colonel’s
heart.

Rinehart twisted slowly and straight-
ened in a last convulsive, agonized ef-
fort. His face was twisted with rage
and pain as he glared for one dying in-
stant at Athos. Then he fell heavily to
the floor, pulling loose Athos’ blade as
he dropped.

Athos saluted him impassively with
his red blade.

“You never had a chance, mon ami,”
he murmured; “but you didn’t deserve
one.”

J_|E TURNED then, and quickly re-
A leased the musketeers and Phillip.
D’Artagnan sprang to Marie’s side
and let her down from the scaffolding.
He held her in his arms tightly for an
instant.

“There is no time for that,” Aramis
said.

“You’re right,” Phillip agreed.
“We’ve got to move fast. We must
find Lenier and Bordeau and then try
to get away from this place before
these three dead Germans are discov-
ered.”

“We will make it without trouble,”
Porthos said. He laughed and slapped
Athos on the back. “You were mag-
niflcient, comrade. I have never seen
your blade quite so effective.”

“How did you get here?” D’Artag-
nan asked quickly. “We thought you
were in Paris.”

“I was,” Athos said. “I was watch-
ing the Paris office of Colonel Rine-
hart, hoping to be able to help Porthos,
Aramis and Phillip, when I saw all
of you emerge and drive away. I fol-
lowed, but you had left the Hotel
Metropole by the time I arrived. By
making inquiries I was able to trace
your car to this neighborhood. I
slipped over a wall and made my way
here. Fortunately I was able to force
a window of the castle in time to send
the good colonel to his final reward.
That’s all there is to my story.”

“Let us hurry,” Phillip said anxious-
ly. “I think we had better arm our-
selves with swords. We may have
trouble yet.”

The musketeers and Phillip quickly
found weapons and then cautiously as-
cended the winding iron stairs. The
corridor of the castle that led to the
dungeon entrance was deserted.

“The French scientists are upstairs,”
Phillip said.

“Where is the car?” D’Artagnan
asked.

“It is close to the front door,” Phillip
answered. “We were caught as we were
driving away, but I am certain the car
was left there in the driveway.”

“Excellent,” D’Artagnan said. “Ara-

THE MUSKETEERS IN PAWS

119

mis and I will take over the little matter
of freeing the French scientists. The
rest of you go to the car and wait for
us — with the motor running.”

“Be careful, please,” Marie said anx-
iously.

“I am always careful,” D’Artagnan
grinned. “Come along, Aramis.”

Phillip waited until the two muske-
teers had started cautiously up the
stairs, then, with the girl at his side
and Athos and Porthos following close-
ly, he led the way from the house to
the dark lane where the staff car was
still parked.

He started the motor and let it warm
quietly.

They waited for several minutes in
the darkness in silence. Their thoughts
were all on the same subject and there
■was no need to speak.

The minutes stretched and dragged.
The wait seemed interminable, but final-
ly Porthos heard the scratch of a boot
on gravel.

“Someone comes,” he whispered.

The next instant the door was flung
open and D’Artagnan leaped into the
car. Two nervous, white-faced figures
crowded quickly in after him.

“Get in the front, Aramis,” D’Artag-
nan said breathlessly.

Phillip slipped the car into gear and
before Aramis had seated himself, they
were rolling toward the main gate.

“We had to kill the guards,” D’Ar-
tagnan said. “There will undoubtedly
be quite a commotion shortly.”

He slapped one of the small men on
the back.

“With luck, Monsieur Lenier or Bor-
deaurwhjchever you are, we’ll be safe
in another few minutes.”

“I am Monsieur Lenier,” the small
man replied weakly. “God and France
will bless you for what you have done
tonight.”

“The devil won’t be displeased

either,” D’Artagnan grinned. “We’ve
sent him a half dozen excellent addi-
tions to his staff.”

”J''HEY were approaching the gate and
Phillip saw a sentry standing in the
road, waving them to a stop with a flash-
light.

“Stop,” Porthos said suddenly. “Let
me handle this.”

Phillip stopped the car. The heavy
gate was shut and there was no way
out unless the sentry ordered it opened.

“Come here!” Porthos bawled to the
sentry.

The sentry approached the side of
the car.

“No one is to leave,” he said crisply.
“We have just received those orders
from the castle.”

“What’s that?” Porthos said. “Don’t
mumble, fool! Step closer so we can
hear you.”

The sentry stepped to the side of the
car and stuck his head into the rear
tonneau. Porthos’ great hands closed
over the man’s neck with the pressure
of a vise. The sentry struggled for an
instant, then was still.

The night was perfectly quiet.

“Of course everything is all right,”
Porthos bellowed loudly. His voice
carried far in the silence. “Your apol-
ogies are a little late, Herr Dumkopf.
You will find that it is not conducive to
your good health to question field mar-
shals as if they were corporals. Have
that gate opened within three seconds
and no more of your stammering.”

The sound of the gate creaking open,
broke the silence.

D’Artagnan grinned with delight at
Porthos.

“I didn’t think you had that much
deceit in that ox-like body of yours,” he
whispered.

Porthos threw the body of the sentry
( Concluded on page ipo)

I tested the machine
on several patients at
the point of death . . «

IS this letter simply a matter of a
practical joke — -or has time travel

become more than a writer's dream?

Nov. 24, 2010

Mageditor Raymond A. Palmer
FANTASTIC ADVENTURES
540 North Michigan Avenue
Chicago, Illinois
United States of America
Mageditor Palmer:

I AM sorry that it is necessary to
write this letter, my dear sir, but it
is my sad and solemn duty to in-

form you that three days after you re-
ceive this you will be dead. You will be
dead, Mageditor Palmer, because I am
going to kill you.

Let me tell you why.

I was born in New York City on
Nov — I believe you know it by its obso-
lete, full name of November 24, the
year of 1970, of very poor parents. My
father was a shoemaker, and my mother
was a cleaning woman. As a result, I

120

I had specialized in the study of elec-
tricity, and by the time I graduated, I
knew my subject thoroughly.

That was all to the good — for when I
got out of school, I made an important
decision. I decided that I was going
to become richer and more famous than
any of the students who’d snubbed me
— and that I’d do it by way of the sub-
ject I’d stuck to mastering despite their
glacial attitudes. I took an unim-

121

always wore »old and shabby clothes,
and when the 1986 government edict
was issued outlawing the payment of
tuition fees at any institute of learning
and I took advantage of it by enrolling
at the de luxe New York School of Spe-
cialized Sciences, the rich students
snubbed me in a body.

I didn’t have a single friend during
the four years I spent at the school.
They were the loneliest of my life. But

122

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

portant job, and began to experiment
and dig around the field of electricity-
in my spare time. •

At school I had been fascinated by
the theory that all life is electrical — and
that death caused by “old age” came
when one’s electricity ran out. There
seemed to me to be a lot of truth in this
idea. I got the thought that if this were
so it would be possible to figure out the
given amount of time in which a given
amount of life-electricity was expended,
and invent a clocking machine which
would measure the electricity in a per-
son, which would predict that person’s
death to the minute.

I discussed my thought with several
people, but they all scoffed.

“Don’t be silly,” they said. “Don’t
you realize that some people bring their
own deaths on early— by fast living,
for example? And how about the
people who don’t die of old age — deaths
in accidents, for example?”

I was able to answer that. I told
them that I thought life and death were
planned — part of the cosmic scheme.
I told them that I thought each per-
son’s death was foredecided . . . that
each person, frugally, was given exactly
enough electricity to last out his span,
no matter what his foredecided method
of death. But they laughed and scoffed.

YX7'ELL, I got to work. I began with
variations of all kinds of electrical
testers. I paid a nurse at a charity hos-
pital to permit me to work with dying
sickness and accident patients, and with
new-born babies. I paid old vagrants
who were near death to allow me to ex-
periment with them day by day. And
finally, I hit it.

It took nearly ten years, but I
emerged with a machine which could
clock a person’s electricity and pre-
dict the exact moment of his death.

I began to test people, all kinds of'

people— friends I’d make at my job,
acquaintances, neighborhood curiosity
seekers who’d heard about my work.
Several of them didn’t have long to live,
and in every case my machine pre-
dicted their death without a minute’s
error.

And then one day, I tested a famous
man — a neighborhood lawyer who’d
risen to the position of Senator. He
took the test more or less as a joke,
mostly to please me because we’d
known each other all our lives. But I
remember that the blood left his face
and his hands began to shake when I
told him that he was going to die in
exactly one week.

Later, he shook his feeling off as a
momentary burst of silly superstitious
fear, and he phoned all the New York
newspapers about the occurrence. They
all printed the story. They thought the
incident very funny.

One week later the Senator died, fol-
lowing a sudden attack. His doctors
agreed that heart failure was unusual in
one so young, but then, they pointed
out, the Senator had been a most active
man.

The first thing that happened after
this was that X was arrested, and a
group of experts were assigned to inves-
tigate my machine. They found it
harmless, which, of course, it was. I
was released, and that began it. Hun-
dreds upon hundreds of people, drawn
by morbid curiosity, asked me to test
them. When I predicted exactly the
deaths of several other famous people,
my own fame began to grow.

My prediction machine, which was
really nothing more or less than a toy
and a curiosity, was only the first. A
number of rich men, attracted by the
publicity, agreed to subsidize me, and I
began to work on other inventions.
One by one, I succeeded in bringing
forth other inventions, several of them

LETTER TO THE EDITOR

123

greatly beneficial to medicine, and sev-
eral greatly helpful to industry.

But as I became richer and richer, a
curious thought began to bother me. I
began to wonder about my own life
span. I tried to fight the thought down,
but it became stronger and stronger. I
became tortured by the desire to know
how long I would live.

I gave in finally. I sat down near the
machine, attached the tester, and
clicked the switch.

^pHE machine worked on a twin-
pointer system. Before the test be-
gan, one pointer was placed on the hour,
day, month, and year of birth, which
was adjusted by twirling a series of dials
listing the twenty-four hours thirty-
one days, twelve months, and years of
the twentieth and twenty-first century.
Then you attached the tester to your-
self, clicked the switch, and watched
the second pointer move to the time of
your death.

I felt my heart pounding hard against
my ribs as I watched. And then, a
strange thing happened.

The prediction pointer began to
move. It moved toward the year of my
birth — and then, to my bewilderment,
it moved past it. It stopped at the
year 1941—29 years before I was born!

I couldn’t understand it. How could
I possibly die in the year 1941, if I
hadn’t even been born until 1970?

At first I had the idea that possibly
the machine had peculiarly human
characteristics— that it could work for
everyone but its creator. But I quickly
discarded the idea. It was a machine,
and when a machine did not work cor-
rectly, there was something wrong with
it.

Again I resorted to sickness and acci-
dent patients who were near death, and
every test showed the machine to be
perfectly active. Then I tried the

machine on myself once more, and again
it swung to 1941.

It was a question I could not answer.
I locked the machine up, and never
looked at it again.

Meanwhile, my fame continued to
grow. When the President, Franklin
Delano Roosevelt IV — great-grandson
of the President during your time, by
the way — created the new Cabinet posi-
tion, Secretary of Science, he asked me
to accept the position. I felt that it was
a great honor, and gladly accepted.

It was one of my duties to check over
new and promising inventions, for the
purpose of choosing those which the
government would subsidize. And
that’s how, one day I came upon the in-
vention which was the beginning of the
end for me. And, of course, for you,
dear Mageditor Palmer.

IT WAS a machine which the inventor
* called a “time-traveler.” The young
man was able to prove conclusively that
by entering the machine, which re-
sembled a small elevator, he had been
able to project himself fifty years into
the future, and back. He had not yet
tried to project himself into the past.

I wrote the young man, asking him to
come to Washington at his earliest
opportunity. That was a great pity, for
he left on the next train. And through
an engineer’s carelessness, the train
was derailed half-way through its trip
— and the young man was among those
killed.

The entire story reached the news-
papers, and they made much of it.
Public attention was aroused. I re-
ceived thousands of letters pointing out
how wonderful the machine would be
for the purpose of going into the past
and clearing up the many historical
facts which were vague or completely
lost to our civilization.

But now there was a problem. Some-

124

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

one would have to bell the cat, as it
were. Someone would have to test the
machine and see if it could go into the
past.

Yes, Mageditor Palmer, you’ve
guessed it. A week before this writing
I was visited by a group of Senators
and other officials, and told that, as the
outstanding scientist of this age, I had
been given the honor of making the
test. They could see no danger in it.
“After all,” one of them said pleasantly,
“if the machine goes forward, there
would seem to be no reason why it can’t
go backward.” The test was set for me
to go back to 1865 and see if Lincoln
was really killed by John Wilkes Booth,
since historians from time to time have
expressed some doubts about it.

I tried to protest, but it was no use.
They insisted and continued to insist,
until I finally had to give in. And I
knew that when I did so I had signed
my own death warrant.

I know perfectly well that when I
reach the 1941 date my invention
specified, the time-traveler is going to
prove a failure and blow up or some-
thing of that sort, and I am going to die.

During this last week, out of the same
sort of idle curiosity which first brought
testees for my prediction machine, I in-
vestigated the past of the young man
who invented the time machine — to see -
if I could find out where he got the idea
for his invention. And do you know
where he got it? He got the idea after
reading a story about a time machine
in an old issue of your magazine.

It may be that my ideas and thoughts
have become distorted because of my
fear of my oncoming death, but I have
come to believe that it is all your fault.
I believe that if it were not for you and
your magazine, the time-traveler might
never have been invented and, because
of the peculiar date predicted for my
death, I might somehow have continued

to live on and on.

So today, Mageditor Palmer, on the
fortieth anniversary of my birth — this
was a brilliant notion of one of the
Senators — I begin the trip to my death.
But, my dear sir, I’m going to see that
you die, too.

I’m going to stop off in 1943 (Novem-
ber 6th, to be exact), get this letter to
you, give you a few days to ponder on
your fate and then take care of you.
Then I’ll continue on to my fate. I had
thought for a while of remaining in
1943, but I worked too hard for suc-
cess during my life to begin life over
again.

I think that sums it up, Mageditor
Palmer. Watch out for dark alleys!

Yours sincerely,
Mead Scientist Scott Feldman
Secretary of Science
United States Cabinet
* * *

(Note by the editor: The foregoing
letter was received on November 8,
1943, in an ordinary envelope post-
marked November 6, 1943, Washing-
ton, D. C. We were struck by the letter
as a good “gag” and decided to accept
it and publish it as fiction in Fantastic
Adventures.)

Accordingly we mailed a check to
Scott Feldman, who is a well-known
fiction writer, using the address in our
files, since no return address appeared
on the envelope, or the letter, other than
that following the signature. Mr. Feld-
man is a resident of Brooklyn, New
York. To our utter amazement, the
check was returned.

Said Mr. Feldman: “I am at a loss
to understand what the enclosed check
is for. I sent you no manuscrnpt en-
titled “Letter To The Editor”. Ap-
parently you have credited me in error
with someone else’s story. Naturally I
was delighted to get a check from you
people, but I’m afraid I can’t take

LETTER TO THE EDITOR

125

credit for something I didn’t do!”

Obviously the Scott Feldman who
calls himself “Secretary of Science” is
not the Scott Feldman who writes fic-
tion. Who ever heard of an author re-
turning a check! To date, we have been
unable to find a Scott Feldman to pre-
sent our check to.

All of which means very little — since
the only thing we can do is wait until
the real author of this bit of fiction
comes forward to claim the check. We
would appreciate his forwarding us his
address so that we may balance our
books on this issue.

But — and to your editor, this is a
BIG but — the most fantastic of all the
events concerning this mysterious “let-
ter” happened on the evening of No-
vember 9, 1943 as your editor was leav-
ing the offices at 540 North Michigan
Avenue, in Chicago, at 9:30 P. M. after

a little overtime work getting a portion
of this particular issue to the printer.
As we left the building, a dark figure
rushed at us from a darkened doorway.
Instinctively we ducked, but only in
time to partially deflect a blow to the
head with some blunt instrument. We
were dazed by the blow, and slumped
down, but managed to grasp at our as-
sailant defensively. Then we lost con-
sciousness.

This morning we have two souvenirs
of the attack — a large goose egg on the
back of our skull, and a strange plastic
button, of a material local chemists have
been unable to positively identify!

We don’t ask you to believe us — we
can’t believe it ourselves. But, earnest-
ly, if Mr. Scott Feldman will come for-
ward and admit that this is a gag, we
will forgive all and gladly return the
check which he so amazingly rejected!

★ FANTASTIC FACTS *

HOME-GROWN CHROMIUM

* NOTHER essential war material once avali-
ze able only through importing has been
promised us in an abundance from domes-
tic sources. This is chromium. Through efforts of
the United States Bureau of Mines, the home pro-
duction of this metal is now assured.

In the past, we have depended upon New Cale-
donia, India, Turkey, the Philippines, and other
foreign countries for the 600,000 tons consumed
here annually. With imports cut off, the govern-
ment has seriously turned its attention to Amer-
ica’s own sources of supply.

We have numerous deposits of low-grade ores
here, and the Bureau of Mines has attempted to
extract the important mineral from these. Our
sources of supply are high in iron and low in car-
bon content, and, until recently, it has been very
difficult to separate them in order to obtain a ratio
of at least three parts chromium to one part iron —
the necessary relationship for the making of satis-
factory alloys. The process developed by the Bu-
reau of Mines has, however, found success in get-
ting the ratio and has already reached as high a
point as 30 and 40 to 1, instead of the meager 2
to 1 of former years.

* * *

FOLLOWING AN ELECTRIFIES
PARTICLE :

T_TAVE you ever wondered how it is po'ssible for
a scientist to trace the paths of electrons,

protons — namely, any charged particle no matter
how small?

One of the most important and ingenious meth-
ods is the cloud-chamber method. By use of a
cloud-chamber, the actual collisions of charged
particles can be observed. It was by virtue of this
all important cloud-chamber that the positron was
discovered.

If we should rapidly expand a vessel containing
saturated water vapor, a fog might take place only
if there were something about which the water
vapor could condense — say a nucleus of some sort
— would we get our fog.

Suppose a stream of electrified particles were
passing thru this vessel, let us analyze the results
that these particles would produce. When electri-
fied particles move swiftly through air, they seem
capable of ripping off the electrons of the air
molecules. This leaves a tell-tale path of ions be-
hind the elusive electrified particles. Ions serve
as good centers about which water vapor can con-
dense, when a suitable expansion takes place in a
chamber. Therefore, we would get a fog formed,
where ions existed in a fog-chamber, confined to
those tracks which the electrified particle had pro-
duced on its ion-forming journey. All we need
do now, is to photograph the illuminated fog drop-
lets and we have a picture of the direction taken
by an electrified particle.

126

FANTASTIC FACTS

A “MUST” FOR YOUR DIET
TAR. WILHELM BUSCHKE of the Johns Hop-
U kins University recently reported the results
of hjs very important experiment to the Federa-
tion of American Societies for Experimental Biol-
ogy.

According to Dr. Buschke if a man’s diet lacks
tryptophane, one of the ten essential amino acids,
he may be afflicted with baldness, cataracts of the
eyes, bad teeth, and even sterility. This food
chemical is found in such various animal foods as
meat, fish, poultry, eggs, and milk and in a lesser
degree in grains and cereals.

To test his theories, Dr. Buschke used rats and
varied the amount of tryptophane in their diets.
Those rats who were completely deprived of the
food chemical developed baldness, cataracts, poor
teeth, and destruction of the male sex glands. He
also tried the experiment with humans and deter-
mined by chemical tests that they too were af-
fected by the lack of tryptophane in their diet.

Dr. Buschke claims that if the diet were con-
tinued with humans as long as it was with the rats
he used, they would also have become bald.

A diet lacking this food chemical affects various
age groups among rats in different ways. Bad
teeth and cataracts developed only among the
young, growing rats while baldness and wasting
sex glands resulted in all age groups. By putting
tryptophane back into the diet, he was able to cure
the baldness and cataracts.

* * *

SOCIAL STATUS IN THE ANIMAL
WORLD

/A B SERVERS of human activities have con-
^ eluded that the function of competition is to
fix the status of the contestants. In the animal
world, too, it has been found this function may be
applied. Who knows, but that your dog is a
leader in his own “crowd” or that the alley cat
you so disdainfully avoid is the “king” of all the
alley cats?

It has been observed, for example, that there is
a definite “pecking order” among hens when they
are grouped. Thus, Hen A pecks Hen B, but the
latter does not retaliate. Instead B pecks C,
while C takes it out on D. Sometimes, through
curious and unexplained circumstances, Hen D
pecks back at Hen A. These pecking orders re-
sult from previous encounters where the relative
prowess of the hens was determined. Open con-
flicts between hens, then, results in the establish-
ment of a hierarchy of status.

In another study— of a flock of thirteen brown
leghorn pullets — pecking order was more carefully
observed. For 60 days, the pecks delivered and
received were recorded. In the same manner, Hen
M pecked all the other twelve hens, Hen L pecked
eleven, Hen K pecked ten, and so down the “social
ladder.” But at Hen F, an irregularity occurred.
She pecked at Hens A, B, C, and E, while the next
hen down, Hen E, pecked at Hens A, B, C, and F.
These slight, interruptions in the scale occur, say
the observers, because of some accident or another,

Hen E may have met Hen F for the first time on
one of F's off days, gained an advantage in the
encounter, and retained it with the aid of the
psychological dominance thus established.

A similar hierarch of status has beat observed
among the baboons. The stronger male baboons
build up harems of females which they protect
from the weaker males. Just as in the case of the
hens, leadership is established by earlier physical
combat among the males.

Very often, too, size plays an important factor
in settling status disputes. The bigger animals
have an advantage over the smaller, and since
males are usually larger than females, they hold a
higher rank in their particular society. Cockerels,
for example, prevail over hens in pecking order.

These examples of settling status disputes carry
over into our own peculiar human world. The
chief of a boy’s gang is often the one who can beat
up all the rest, or who is better than the others in
certain physical feats.

The first thing an Eskimo must do when he
moves to a settlement which he has never visited
before is to engage in a series of wrestling matches
so that he may be placed in his proper place in the
hierarchy of strength.

Even among infants, there is a hierarch of status
established by conflict. In a study of 18 infants,
21 to 33 months old, it was observed that during
the pre-play period the greatest number of con-
flicts were won by the less intelligent, taller, older,
heavier children. An advantage in weight was
found to be the most important settling factor.

Fortunately, mature humans in our society have
substituted social, scientific, economic, scholastic,
and political competition as the bases for settling
disputes as to correct status. But even here we
have “irregularities.” Obviously, street fighting,
wars, crime and other situations where physical
combat decides status are expressions of less ma-
ture organization. After all, we hope to stay
superior to the thirteen brown leghorn pullets of
the “pecking order” experiment! .

* * *

TO COMBAT INCENDIARY BOMBS
“D UN for your lives, they're dropping incen-
diary bombs” or “Steady men and we’ll
soon have these fires under control.” Which of
these statements will we hear if and when our
American cities are ever bombed? The Office of
Civilian Defense is making every effort to insure
a systematic handling of fires started by incendiary
bombs and is training thousands of civilians to
know their jobs so well that panic will never get
a chance to start. But willingness to fight these
fire bombs is not enough. Tools and materials
must be provided and here is where science and
research lends its helping hand.

One of the latest discoveries is that feldspar
when ground fine enough to pass through a 10-
mesh screen but not through a 200-mesh screen is
very effective in putting out incendiary bombs of
the magnesium type. ,It has been tested very thor-
oughly at the Geological Survey Laboratories and

FANTASTIC FACTS

127

at the Chemical Warfare Service Arsenal located
at Edgewood, Maryland.

Feldspar which is a potassium-aluminum silicate
is very abundant. Its melting point is 2100° F.
which is less than that of sand and both substances
put out bombs on the same principle. The melted
feldspar covers the burning magnesium in the
bomb and smothers it. In tests it acted so quickly
that only one-half of the magnesium was burned
before the fire was put out.

Since it does not bum, smoke, or scatter very
much, feldspar is far superior to sand or the many
other mixtures used at present. It is a little more
expensive than sand costing about $1.00 per ISO
pounds which is approximately the amount needed
by the average household. The increased cost is
offset by the fact that feldspar does away with all
other expensive equipment and requires little in-
struction in its use. All one needs to do is sprin-
kle a little feldspar on the bomb and then watch
to see that flying sparks don’t get a chance to start
another fire nearby.

Uncle Sam, in the person of the Department of
the Interior, has arranged with the inventors of
the process to obtain government controlled patent
protection. Then reliable companies will be per-
mitted to use the process to produce feldspar. This
product will soon be available to householders.

* * *

A REVOLUTIONARY CHANGE IN
U-BOATS

TXIAR becomes a very potent “necessity” that
* ’ becomes “the mother of invention.” Bellig-
erent powers work constantly to improve their
equipment. One of the most recent developments
is in the field of naval construction — a new, im-
proved submarine.

The capture of a German submarine has re-
vealed one of the secrets of their improved ma-
neuverability — a hydrogen-oxygen engine that op-
erates when the vessel is submerged. This elim-
inates the heavy electric motors and batteries that
account for about one-sixth of a U-boat’s weight.

The single, modified Diesel engine burns oil on
the surface and a mixture of hydrogen and oxygen
for underwater maneuver. (Ordinarily, subma-
rines use oil-burning Diesels on the surface and
electric motors under water.)

The resulting reduction of tonnage allows
greater speed for crash diving, affords an increase
in torpedo load, and extends cruising range. Be-
cause of its sturdy construction, the sub can sub-
merge to nearly 600 feet— about 300 feet beyond
the reach of depth charges!

The new U-boat has smaller tubes than former
undersea craft, allowing the use of a standardized
torpedo also made for motor torpedo boats and
planes. Another feature in its design is retract-
able deck guns; these enable the sub to open fire
a few moments after surfacing.

It looks as if the Nazis wanted to keep their
reputation of the last war: “the terror of ocean
shipping” — with terror-hungry U-boats.

PAINLESS CHILDBIRTH
PAINLESS childbirth through injection of an
* anesthetic in the lower tip of the spine has now
been made relatively safe through elimination of
a former hazard, the possibility of a fatal spinal
injection, the Journal of the American Medical
Assn, has announced.

The improvement was devised by Dr. Nathan
Block, and Dr. Morris Rotstein of Sinai Hospital,
Baltimore, upon the original technique developed
by Drs. Robert. A. Hingson and Waldo B. Edwards
of Staten Island, N. Y., announced last winter. It
is known as caudal anesthesia.

Danger factor in the original method was that
an injection of metycaine, a cocaine substitute,
might accidentally enter the spinal canal instead
of the caudal space at the tip of the spine, where
nerves transmitting pain to the brain are located.

The Baltimore Physicians found that by using
a saline solution at first, the number of drops per
minute which enter the spinal canal is greater than
the rate of flow into the caudal space. The saline
solution is harmless, so that an accidental entry
into the spinal canal would be discovered without
harmful result. After the injection has been
checked, the cocaine anesthetic is then adminis-
tered by a continuous drip method.

The Baltimore Physicians believe the technique
may be modified for surgery.

“Continuous caudal anesthesia has been very
satisfactory in our hands,” they reported, but
added a warning that “certain highly dangerous
complications are possible, and therefore it would
be given only in well-equipped hospitals by per-
sons experienced in the technique.”

* * *

YELLOW SKINNED WAR WORKERS

A FEW months ago, the British Ministry of
Labor and the managements of many of the
Royal Ordnance factories were faced with a seri-
ous problem. It seems that the skin on the faces
of the girls working near high explosives was turn-
ing yellow and though the girls didn’t mind long
hours or hard work they were not going to risk
losing their beauty.

British chemists were immediately set to work
to prepare cosmetics that would give the girls ade-
quate protection.

These cosmetics are furnished free of charge in
' the ladies’ rooms located throughout the factories
and every girl must use them. Women inspectors
have been hired to tour the factories to enforce the
rules that a girl must either use a calomine lotion
and a fine face powder or else a non-greasy face
cream covered with powder.

When the girls report for work, they apply the
cosmetics under the supervision of the plant in-
spectors and cover their hair with white dust
sheets. By this simple precaution, the girls can
provide their faces with the necessary protection
to keep it smooth and lovely and just as attrac-
tive as ever to the boys on leave.

A THOUGHT

BY LEROY YERXA

Percy was seven feet tall, so people
were careful what they said to him. Then
they learned it wasn't safe even to think!

128

A SHADOW passed between Inez Mathew and the
window, blotting light from the office. Miss
Mathew looked up, her attractive brown eyes
widening.

“Goodness,” she exclaimed. “Who let you in?”

Percy Dimwiddy, removed his cap, scraped his num-
ber thirteen shoes against the floor a little nervously and
stared down at the pretty girl behind the desk.

“My name is Percy Dimwiddy,” he announced in a
meek voice. “I’d like to see Mr. Roberts:”

Inez allowed her eyes to travel up and down the huge
youth before her. There was a lot of Mr. Dimwiddy. About

129

130

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

seven feet, including bulging shoulders
and a clean-cut face that she liked al-
most at once.

“Cowboy,” she said wonderingly. “I
didn’t know they made anything so big.
What do you do about replacements,
with a war on?”

Percy Dimwiddy considered the
question. Twirling his cap on one lin-
ger, he leaned over and whispered in
Miss Mathew’s ear.

“You better be careful what you
think about me. I pick thoughts from
the air.”

Miss Mathew rose quickly, a blush
coloring her cheeks. She was not quite
tall enough to reach Percy’s shoulders.

“Are you getting fresh?”

Mr. Dimwiddy was very concerned.

“Oh dear, no!” he assured her. “I
just want to play fair. Sometimes peo-
ple think nice things about me, and I’m
really not the fine specimen you just
thought.”

Miss Mathew turned a deeper shade
of pink. She sat dovra abruptly, mo-
tioning him toward the door of Mike
Roberts’ office.

“Mr. Roberts will see you at once,”
she said in a low voice. “Fresh!”

Percy crossed the room and hesitated
before the glass panel lettered Michael
Roberts — Theatrical Agent, He had
said the wrong thing again. Just when
he started to like the girl behind the
desk, he had to open his big mouth and
spoil everything.

TTE KNOCKED gently. “Come in,”
said a gruff voice beyond the
panel.

Dimwiddy pushed the door open,
bent his head for clearance and man-
aged to scrape through. He stood be-
fore a desk littered with phones, girl-
pictures and whiskey bottles. The man
who sat behind it didn’t look very bril-
liant. He wore a battered derby,

chewed on a wet cigar stub, and the fin-
gers that fumbled with the pictures were
fat and dirty. After a short time, he
glanced up. His eye-lids popped sky-
ward. He snatched a bottle and gulped
at its contents hurriedly.

“I don’t believe it,” he said after he
put the bottle down. “They don’t make
’em this big without priorities.”

“I’m Percy Dimwiddy. I heard you
hired people for show acts.”

Roberts stood up, thrusting his fin-
gers to Dimwiddy’s big paw. To his
surprise, although Dimwiddy’s grasp
was firm, he broke none of Roberts’ fin-
gers.

“Sit down, Dimwiddy,” he urged.
“What’s your racket?”

“Racket?” Percy remained on his
feet. He had a long-founded distrust
for chairs.

Roberts was impatient.

“Act. You know. What do you do
on the stage?”

“Oh!” Percy said. “I pick thoughts
out of the air.”

Mike grinned.

“Sorry, mind readers ain’t what they
use to be.”

“But I’m not a mind reader, exactly,”
Dimwiddy protested. “That is, I’m no
fake. You see, once we were having
a history test in school. I found I could
pick up everything the girl next to me
was thinking. I finislied the test on
her thoughts.”

Mike Roberts smiled sourly.

“A perfect mark, no doubt?”
Dimwiddy colored slightly.

“The girl had all the wrong answers,”
he confessed. “We both flunked.”
Roberts leaned forward in his chair.
“Show me,” he invited. “It don’t
sound so bad.”

Dimwiddy concentrated.

“You were looking at a lot of pictures
when I came in,” he said. “Right now
you’re thinking about a girl called San-

A THOUGHT IN TIME

131

dra Williams. You like her best be-
cause the costume she wears in the pic-
ture leaves little to the imagination.
You’ve decided to hire her.”

Roberts’ face turned a mottled red.

“You’re pretty smart, ain’t you?”

Dimwiddy didn’t answer. He was
staring at Roberts, and his face turned
pink. Roberts tried desperately to
cover up his thoughts. It proved im-
possible. Dimwiddy clenched his fists.

“I came up here to get a job,” he said.
“I guess you and I can’t do business,
Mr. Roberts.”

He turned and started toward the
door.

Roberts thought: Who the hell does
the big stiff think he is?

Too late, he realized Mr. Dimwiddy’s
queer gift was still working. Percy
wheeled, his hand on the door knob.

“I may be a big stiff,” he blazed. “But
right now your secretary is comparing
you and me. You aren’t coming out so
good. She thinks you’re a dried-up lit-
tle rat.”

Roberts was on his feet, arms waving
wildly.

“You— you oversized man moun-
tain!” he bellowed. “Get the hell out
of here before ...”

His voice died to a whisper.

“Where you gonna get an army in a
hurry?” Dimwiddy asked calmly. He
went out, slamming the door behind
him. The glass shivered violently and
settled back into the putty, still intact.

Mr. Dimwiddy crossed the outer of-
fice, stopped at the door and turned to
Inez Mathew. Her typewriter clicked
steadily. She did not look up.

“Thanks, Miss,” he said. “I think
you’re pretty sweet.”

He was half way to the elevator be-
fore Inez dared to think of anything.

Tj'OR the first time in Percy Dimwid-
dy’s life, he was unhappy. Back

home, thoughts hadn’t disturbed him
very much. Small towns produced peo-
ple who didn’t have many worries to
pass along. Chicago was different.
Everyone sent thoughts at him along
the street about unpaid taxes and un-
happy wives. Draft dodgers also made
Dimwiddy miserable.

He found a lunch car, went inside
and, standing behind one of the small
stools, ordered a hamburger and a cup
of coffee. The waiter, a kid of sixteen,
stared at Percy Dimwiddy with great
respect.

“Drag in the cow,” he shouted to the
cook. “Gulliver’s here for a hamboig.”
He turned to Percy.

“You working for a circus?”
Dimwiddy shook his head sadly.
“Nope! Just looking for a job. Only
got here last night.”

The kid whistled.

“Washing elephants would be easy
for you,” he said. “Oughta be a job
like that around somewhere.”

Dimwiddy smiled. There was noth-
ing but honest admiration in the wait-
er’s thoughts. He finished his first ham-
burger, decided he was still hungry and
ordered six more.

“I tried to get on the stage,” he ad-
mitted. “Went to see Mr. Roberts,
the show man, but he didn’t like me
very well.”

“Mike Roberts wouldn’t give you the
fuzz off his blankets,” the boy said.
“Don’t bother with him. Go see Jerry
Kern at the Vaudeville Club. Roberts
works for him. Kern’s got plenty of
dough. Maybe he’ll give you a break.”
“Thanks,” Percy said. “Will you tell
me how to find him?”

The waiter scribbled an address on a
paper napkin and passed it across the
counter.

“The Vaudeville Club is down the
street a ways,” he said. “It’s a big joint.
You can’t miss it.”

132

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

Percy finished his meal in silence. He
paid the check, thanked the waiter and
started to leave.

“Drop in again,” the kid invited.
“You make up for six ordinary custom-
ers.”

AT TEN o’clock the Vaudeville Club
was doing a fair business. Cabs
discharged their fares from the Loop
under the awning of the club. The club
had glitter and music that attracted a
big following.

Jerry Kern entered his office just
after ten, tossed his hat in the general
direction of the rack and peeled cello-
phane from a slim cigar. He neglected
to remove the expensive, tight-fitting
gloves that covered slim fingers. Mike
Roberts had been waiting for Kern to
come in. Roberts removed his feet
from Kern’s desk hurriedly and stood
up. Ignoring Roberts, Kern sat down
and started to scan through a stack of
letters. His fingers darted about in
quick, decisive movements. The thin,
curled lips and narrow eyes reminded
Mike Roberts of something closely akin
to the rat family. He didn’t like Kern,
but the boss had money and Mike could
overlook a lot for that reason.

He waited until Kern checked the last
letter, removed a large silk handker-
chief from his pocket and wiped his
forehead.

“Did you get those girls for next
week’s chorus?” Kern asked sharply.

Roberts nodded.

“Sure did,” he said. “They’re pips.”

Kern left the desk, went to the wall
and took down a large painting. There
was a small wall safe hidden behind it.
Kern twisted the dial expertly and
opened the safe.

“Is Inez outside?” he asked.

Mike nodded.

“We’re all set,” he said.

Kern took out two small parcels.

They were wrapped in brown paper
and taped securely.

“Let Inez take the first one to the
currency exchange on Walnut Street.”
Kern passed the packages to Mike
Roberts. “You can deliver the other to
Casey’s Exchange on Twelfth and
Pine.”

“Right.”

Roberts pushed the packages into his
coat pockets. “You’re pretty smart,
Jerry.”

“I get by,” Kern answered. He
closed the safe, replaced the painting
and returned to his desk.

A KNOCK sounded on the door.
“Come in,” Kern said.

One of the bartenders entered, wip-
ing his hands on his apron.

“Sorry to bother you, Boss,” he said.
“But there’s a big bruiser outside what
wants to see you.”

Kern was once more busy at the desk.
He looked up impatiently.

“Get rid of him.”

The bartender’s face colored slightly.

“I don’t think we oughta do that,”
he protested. “He’s pretty big. May-
be you better handle him.”

Kern started to speak, then hesi-
tated. A smile twitched his lips.

“Who is this guy?”

“Says his name is Dimwiddy,” the
bartender mumbled. “Percy Dimwid-

dy.”

“Oh-oh!” Mike Roberts slid for-
ward in his chair. “Maybe you oughta
talk with this guy, Mr. Kern. He was
at the office today. Stands seven feet
tall in his stocking feet.”

Kern smiled unpleasantly.

“Send Dimwiddy in,” he said. “Per-
haps I can use him.”

“Keep him outside for a minute,”
Roberts said. “There’s something
about Dimwiddy I think the boss
oughta know.”

A THOUGHT IN TIME

133

The bartender looked at Kern,
caught his signal and went out. Rob-
erts leaned over Kern’s desk.

“Look out for this Dimwiddy,” he
cautioned. “He can read minds. Any-
how, when you think something, he can
tell what you’re thinking.”

For an instant Kern looked startled.
Then he grinned unpleasantly.

“Anyone can read minds,” he said.
“The way to prevent it, though, is just
think of a lot of things that aren’t im-
portant. I’ll have your mind reader so
confused he’ll go batty.”

Roberts started to bluster.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Kern’s hand shot out and closed
around Roberts’ wrist like a steel band.

“Warn me about what?” His eyes
narrowed.

Roberts’ face turned white.

“I didn’t mean nothin’ special,” he
said. “Just — well, it ain’t no fun hav-
ing a guy telling you what you’re think-
ing before you can get it out.”

The fingers relaxed.

“No one gets information out of me
until I’m ready to talk,” Kern said
coolly.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Come in, Mr. Dimwiddy,” Kern
said in a pleasant voice.

Percy Dimwiddy hesitated just in-
side the door. He twirled his cap on
one finger and stared at Kern.

Mr. Kern had Percy Dimwiddy puz-
zled. There were an awful lot of dis-
connected thoughts floating around the
room, and Dimwiddy ' couldn’t make
sense out of them. He had a feeling
that Mike Roberts had warned Kern,
although he couldn’t be sure. Jerry
Kern was thinking about a cottage at
Mountain View — about making love to
Inez Mathew and — yes, odd as it
seemed, Kern was thinking how he’d
have to hide paper plates from Inez
when they went to Mountain View.

That last part had Percy stumped.
He was suddenly angry to find that
Kern and Miss Mathew were so friend-
ly, and he wondered what in heck Kern
meant by hiding paper plates.

T_TE DIDN’T have time to sort out
any more of the thoughts that
were floating about the room.

Mr. Kern stood up and walked over
to Dimwiddy.

“I understand you want a job,” he
said.

“Yes, sir,” Percy answered eagerly.
“I. thought perhaps if I came and saw
you ...”

Kern smiled approvingly.

“I guess you’ll be okay,” he said.
“Ever work as a body-guard?”

Percy wasn’t sure, but somehow he
felt Kern wasn’t telling or thinking what
was really most important in his mind.
The thoughts in the room were all
blurred and mixed up. They didn’t
make sense.

“No, sir,” he said. “But I could try.
I guess I’m pretty strong. I might
scare people all right.”

“Good,” Kern said. “Go out and
have a few drinks on the house. You’ll
start work at once. I’ll be out in half
an hour and you can see that I get home
safely.”

He took a small automatic pistol
from his pocket and passed it to Dim-
widdy.

“Better carry this from now on,” he
said. “You probably won’t have to use
it, but better be on the safe side.”
Dimwiddy drew away.

“I’d — I’d rather not carry a gun,” he
said weakly. “I guess I won’t need it.”
Kern’s lips tightened.

“You want the job, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I need it.”

“Then let me be the judge,” Kern
said. “A body-guard needs a rod.”
Dimwiddy took the weapon and put

134

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

it carefully into his pocket.

“Thanks,” he said. “They gave me
some milk at the bar. I’ll wait there
until you want me.”

Mike Roberts chuckled and Dim-
widdy whirled toward him.

“Milk never did me any harm,” he
said. “I’ve got an idea I could knock
the stuffing out of you if Mr. Kern told
me to.”

Kern smiled.

“You two better be friendly,” he
said. “From now on, you’re working
for the same man.”

Dimwiddy looked doubtful.

“And when you go out, tell the bar-
keep to send Miss Mathew in here.”

“Yes, sir.” Percy felt better. May-
be he’d at least have a chance to see
Miss Mathew if they both worked for
the same boss.

Outside, he found the barkeep, de-
livered his message and sat down be-
fore a tall glass of milk. In a few min-
utes he saw the trim figure of Inez
Mathew as she went toward Jerry
Kern’s office. Later, she and Mike
Roberts came out and left the club
hurriedly.

ILT ALF an hour passed. Percy amused
himself by picking up odd
thoughts that drifted around the Vaude-
ville Club. Jerry Kern came from his
office and motioned Percy after him.
They picked up their coats at the check
room.

“Okay, Gulliver,” Kern said. “We’re
going home now.”

He led the way toward the entrance.
As they crossed the sidewalk toward
Kern’s car, three uniformed men came
from the shadows, guns in hand.

“Okay, Jerry, up with your mitts.”

Kern raised his hands slowly.

A short, red-faced policeman poked
a gun into Dimwiddy’s ribs.

“You too, big boy,” the cop said.

“Jerry’s friends are my friends at a
time like this.”

Percy Dimwiddy, completely bewil-
dered, followed Kern’s example. He
felt the cop’s hands as they went swiftly
over his clothing and stopped on the
hard bulge of the automatic. The cop
whistled.

“Well, well,” he said, pulling the gun
out. “Looks like we got the right
party.”

“What the hell’s the idea?” Kern
asked angrily. “He wouldn’t hurt any-
one.”

The cop chuckled.

“One of you knows Randy Edwards,”
he said. “If I’m not way off the track,
this will be the gun that killed him.
Let’s all take a ride down to the sta-
tion and make sure.”

“JDUT I am telling the truth,” Percy
Dimwiddy protested. “I just went
to work for Mr. Kern tonight. He
gave me the gun at the club and I was
going to see that he got home safe. I
didn’t know it was against the law to
carry it. I thought he knew best.”

Sergeant Jim Waddle was both an-
gry and exhausted. His throat was
parched from asking many questions.

“We know, we know,” he said with
mock sweetness. “So you took the gun
because he asked you to. Listen, kid,
you may be big but you ain’t smart.
There’s no prints on that gun but yours.
Randy Edwards was found dead in his
currency exchange over on Wallace
Street. We know Randy had some-
thing on Kern. He was about ready
to tell us what it was. That’s why we
picked up Kern. I don’t know if he’s
mixed up in it or not, but you need
money and you got the gun. Kern’s
got the alibi. Now, are you gonna
talk?”

Dimwiddy was bewildered. They
had kept him under a bright light for

A THOUGHT IN TIME

135

three hours. He had picked up Jim
Waddle’s thought, and he knew the po-
liceman wasn’t sure of himself. Percy
knew that Kern had framed him some-
how, but he didn’t know how he was
going to prove it.

Mike Roberts and Inez Mathew were
mixed up with Kern. He hated to be-
lieve that the girl was a crook.

“I tell you I just got the gun to-
night,” he said again. “I never even
heard of . . .”

Waddle groaned.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s sleep on that.
Maybe in the morning you’ll see that it
ain’t any use to lie. Take him out,
bojrs.”

Two husky policemen sidled toward
Percy.

“I’m not going to fight,” Percy said.
“You won’t have to be afraid.”

The cops looked at each other in dis-
may. How in hell did he know they
were afraid of him?

'-jpHE policeman led Dimwiddy along
the row of cells, through two doors
that he locked carefully behind him and
into the visitor’s room.

“You got ten minutes,” the cop said.
“There’s a girl here who w r ants to see
you.”

Dimwiddy’s heart jumped. Before
he was half-way to the table where Inez
Mathew sat, he picked up lovely, warm-
hearted thoughts from her. Inez looked
very tired.

“Hello,” Percy said hesitantly. “I’m,
glad, you came.”

She stared at him, slightly bewil-
dered by what had happened.

“How did you get into this terrible
mess?”.

Dimwiddy was trying hard to pick
up coherent thoughts from her mind.
She seemed on guard. The vagrant
thoughts that he managed to catch were
mostly about herself. She seemed wor-

ried about trips she had taken to Randy
Edwards’ exchange. Once, he was sure
she thought for a minute about Jerry
Kern, and the thought expressed worry
for Kern’s safety.

“They think I killed a man named
Randy Edwards,” he said a little stiff-
ly. “I had a gun that Kern gave me. I
never heard of Edwards.”

Inez leaned forward eagerly.

“You think Jerry Kern might have
something to do with it?”

I hope not! Oh, I hope not ! she was
thinking.

Dimwiddy was on guard at once.

“I don’t know anything about Kern,”
he said. “I only met him last night.
Do you know anything that might help
me get out of here?”

A number of things, she was think-
ing. But they can’t be true. Kern
would, involve me in this thing . I’d
maybe go to jail with him. No! Jerry
knows nothing about the murder.

Dimwiddy picked up each thought
carefully, and found himself suddenly
hating Inez and Jerry Kern.

“I can’t understand how Mr. Kern
could kill anyone,” she said aloud. “He
used to send the money he made at the
club to the bank. One night the ar-
mored car was held up and his money
was stolen. Of course he was insured
and didn’t lose a cent. Still, after that,
he always sent Mike Roberts and me
to various cash exchanges with the day’s
proceeds. It’s an odd way to handle
money, but I see nothing in it that
would point to murder.”

“Then you knew Edwards?” Percy
asked.

“I’ve taken money to him several
times,” Inez admitted. “He was a nice
fellow. I can’t believe . . .”

Percy Dimwiddy shook his head.

“I didn’t kill him,” he said. “But I
can’t make sense out of it. Kern must
know something that we don’t.”

136

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“Ten minutes are up.” The cop came
up behind Dimwiddy. “The lady will
have to go.”

“Mr. Kern is putting up bail for
you.” Inez rose hastily. “He sent
cash to his lawyer this morning. If
everything goes well at the preliminary
hearing, we’ll have you out of jail to-
morrow night.”

“Thanks,” Percy answered. “I ap-
preciate everything . . .”

“Sorry,” the cop behind Percy said
in a loud voice. “Time’s up.”

Percy turned once more as he reached
the door. Inez was watching him. She
looked very sad.

J IM WADDLE was waiting in the
front office. He tossed Dimwiddy’s
pocketbook and comb to him and
grinned.

“Okay,” he said. “For the time
being, you’re free to go. Guess we
got a fight on our hands. Kern’s hired a
good criminal lawyer.”

Percy knew what Waddle was up to.
He could read Waddle’s thoughts like
a book. The fat policeman hadn’t been
able to get a confession. He was going
to play the part of a buddy and secure
what information he could.

“Did Mr. Kern put up the bail
money?” Percy asked.

Waddle nodded.

“A big wad of it,” he admitted.
Percy Dimwiddy had been thinking
things out pretty carefully since Inez
Mathew’s visit. A lot of points refused
to tie up. If Jerry Kern meant to
frame him, why did he put up that bail
money?

“Mr. Waddle,” Dimwiddy asked
suddenly. “I wonder if you’d let me
help you solve this case. I got
a lot of ideas that I wish you’d help me
figure out. Maybe you haven’t much
to do this morning?”

To say that Waddle was surprised

would be an understatement. His eyes
narrowed.

“You trying to put over a fast one?”

Dimwiddy expressed utter astonish-
ment.

“No — honest,” he said. “I didn’t kill
Randy Edwards. I’ve never seen him.
I sort of wanted to go over to the cur-
rency exchange where he was mur-
dered. Could you go along?”

Waddle thought the thing out slowly,
and Dimwiddy knew Waddle’s answer
before it came.

Waddle wasn’t a fool. He figured
that Dimwiddy might do something that
would trip him up, if he revisited the
scene of the crime.

“Okay,” he said finally. “We’ll have
to be back before noon. I still can’t
figure ...”

“Don’t try,” Percy Dimwiddy
begged. “I think I got some ideas,
that’s all.”

r jpHE currency exchange in which
Randy Edwards had been murdered
was a small, box-like affair wedged be-
tween a couple of office buildings. The
place was locked. Waddle produced a
key and opened the door. They went
inside.

“Damndest thing I ever heard of,”
Waddle mumbled. “Revisiting the
scene of a killing with the murderer at
his suggestion. I still can’t figure how
they let Kern bail you out.”

Percy Dimwiddy was wandering
about slowly. Instead of looking for
clues, he closed his eyes tightly and
walked from one side of the room to the
other.

“Randy Edwards was killed while he
was sitting back of the cage?” he
asked.

Waddle nodded.

“You ought to know,” he grumbled.

Dimwiddy opened the small door that
led to the cashier’s cage and went in-

A THOUGHT IN TIME

137

side. He sat down in the chair where
Edwards had evidently been sitting
when he was shot. Closing his eyes
again for a long time, he sat motionless,
as though half asleep.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet.

“Do }mu know where Mountain View
is?” he asked Waddle eagerly.

Waddle thought for a moment.

“Taking a summer vacation?” he
asked sarcastically.

“We got to get to Mountain View
right away,” Dimwiddy insisted. He
left the booth, and came out to the front
of the exchange. “I think I can find
your murderer for you, and prove
that he killed Edwards.”

“That’s what we need — proof,”
Waddle agreed. “I can touch the mur-
derer from where I stand. Now tell me
how you did it?”

It was Dimwiddy’s turn to become
sarcastic.

“I wanted to help you, Mr. Waddle,”
he said. “You can’t prove I did some-
thing that I didn’t know anything
about. We’ve got to get to Mountain
View right away. It may be too late if
you keep on stalling.”

Waddle thought the whole thing over
carefully. What could he lose? At
least he was keeping track of Dim-
widdy.

“Okay,” he agreed. “It’s the screwiest
murder setup I’ve ever had, me solving
the murder with the help of the killer
himself. I got gas enough for fifty miles.
Come on.”

The ride to Mountain View was a
swift one. Percy Dimwiddy had every-
thing figured out nicely now. So
smoothly that he was heart-broken
about the whole thing. It all straight-
ened out with the two old thoughts he
had managed to pick up while he and
Waddle were at the exchange. First,
he found one of Inez Mathew’s thoughts
which had evidently stayed locked into

the small room after the police left.

Inez had been there sometime, prob-
ably about the time Edwards was shot.

7 can’t see any harm in the trip to
Mountain View, Inez’s thought told
Dimwiddy. As long as Mr. Roberts and
the other girl are along.

The other thought must have been
Randy Edwards’.

The money’s counterfeit, all right,
Randy Edwards had thought as he sat
in the chair behind the cage. Kern’s
number is up, as soon as 1 tell the cops.

“TT’S all quite simple,” Dimwiddy
thought as Waddle’s car sped into
the deep, pine-clad valley of Mountain
View. “Kern makes counterfeit dough
and uses Mike Roberts and Inez to dis-
tribute it for him. Edwards found out,
and was ready to squeal. Kern shot
him, planted the gun on me, then to
clear himself once and for all, he put up
bail money to get me out. He knew
Waddle would pin enough on me sooner
or later to put me back in jail.”

He was conscious suddenly that the
car had stopped at a gas station near
the edge of a mountain lake, and that
Waddle had spoken to him.

“Huh?” Percy asked.

“I said, here we are. Where next?”

“Oh,” Percy said. “Could we ask
someone where Jerry Kern’s cabin is?”

“Kern?” Waddle’s fingers clutched
the wheel a little more tightly. “Sure,
wait a minute.”

Percy was sure Inez didn’t know
Kern was making counterfeit money.
He remembered that meaningless
thought he had picked up in Kern’s
office to the effect that Kern would
have to hide the paper plates from the
girl. Kern’s thoughts must have been a
little garbled. To make counterfeit
money, it took paper — a special kind —
and plates for the printing. Why hadn’t
he thought of that?

138

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

An attendant was busy filling the
gasoline tank of Waddle’s car.

“You know a guy named Kern?”
Waddle asked him. “Supposed to have
a cottage up here somewhere?”

The attendant, a gangly, sleepy in-
dividual, scratched his chin and leaned
on the side of the car.

“Kern?” His eyes brightened. “Oh,
sure— -Jerry Kern. He came through
here just this morning.^ Had a fella
and a girl in the back seat of his car.
Drive up this road about half a mile
and turn off toward the lake. It’s
the only cottage off the road. Can’t
miss it.”

“Thanks,” Waddle said, and waited
for change.

“You got a gun with you?” Dim-
widdy asked.

Waddle grinned.

“You’re fixing to have some fun,
ain’t you? Yeah, I got a cannon.”

’"JPHEY drove for a while, found the
small, rutted road and turned down
across sandy fields toward a grove of
trees by the lake.

“You better stop before we get too
dose,” Dimwiddy said. “We don’t
want them to know we’re coming.”

He was worried about Inez. If Kern
had brought a couple in the rear seat,
they would be Mike and his girl friend.
What about Inez? Percy hoped she
hadn’t come. Perhaps she was inno-
cent after all.

Waddle, so bewildered that he was
ready for anything, stopped just at the
entrance of the grove and turned off
the motor. They climbed out and
moved forward cautiously.

The cottage, a rambling, one-story
affair, was close to the water. Brown
shingles glistened in the sun on the far
side of the grove. Dimwiddy led the
way. The back of the cottage had two
small windows. Percy Dimwiddy went

swiftly to one of them, and stood close
to the rear wall. Waddle, puffing a bit,
reached his side.

Dimwiddy pushed up one of the win-
dows gently and they climbed in.
Voices, subdued and mysterious, were
coming from another part of the cot-
tage. Dimwiddy went to the far side
of the bedroom and stood by the closed
door, listening.

Kern was beyond the door. Dim-
widdy heard him, his voice angry and
threatening.

“You two got your cut. We’ll have
to quit and lay low for a while.”

Knowing that he was probably put-
ting Inez Mathew behind bars, Dim-
widdy motioned Waddle across the
room. Waddle, his ear close to the
panel, listened as Mike Roberts raised
his voice in protest.

“But the cops don’t know nothing
about the counterfeit racket. Edwards
died before he could squeal.”

Dimwiddy, triumphant and sad at
the same time, watched Waddle’s eye-
lids raise.

“You keep your mouth shut about
Edwards,” Kern said. “That goof
Dimwiddy will take the rap. After this,
we don’t even know there was a Randy
Edwards.”

“But, Boss, they can’t get nothing
on you. You were wearing gloves

Crack!

“Ouch!” Roberts yelped. “You
didn’t have to . .

“Shut up,” Kerns shouted. “I told
you not to talk about Edwards.”

Silence for a minute, then:

“What about the girl?”

Kern chuckled.

“What do you think I drove up to
the lake for?”

There was a sudden feminine cry of
protest.

“My God, you wouldn’t . .

Dimwiddy did not recognize the

A THOUGHT !N TIME

139

voice. It wasn’t Inez, he was sure.

“The bottom of the lake is a good
place for the girl and the printing
press,” Kern was saying. “The girl
knows too much. I’ll put enough
grease on the press so we can pull it
out and go to work again when things
clear up.”

Waddle nodded suddenly and Percy
Dimwiddy knew the cop had heard
enough. Waddle stood well away
from the door, and drew his pistol. He
kicked the door open and yelled:

“Put ’em up, before I start spraying
lead!”

A/fIKE ROBERTS jerked around
quickly. At sight of Waddle his
eyes widened and his hands shot toward
the ceiling. There was a tall, red-haired
girl at his side. She looked out of place
in a low-cut dancing-frock and mas-
cara that had run down her cheeks. She
screamed and her arms jerked over her
head. Kern had been sitting on the
edge of a desk. Beside him were a
small printing press, a couple of ink
cans and some zinc plates. His fingers,
slim and glove-covered, went up slowly,
reluctantly. His smile was humorless.

“That’s what I call gratitude,” he
said smoothly. “I spend good dough
to bail out a cheap crook and he turns
around and bites me.”

Percy Dimwiddy didn’t hear him.
He was across the room and beside the
girl lying on the davenport. It was
Inez Mathew. Her arms and legs were
tied firmly with heavy rope. She had
a thick gag in her mouth.

“Good dough, is it?” Waddle moved
toward Kern slowly, a tight grin on his
face. “We can find that bail money in
a hurry, Kern. I’ll bet it’s counter-
feit like everything else about you.”

J^URING the trip home in Waddle’s
car, Percy Dimwiddy was very

happy. Kern, Roberts and Mike’s girl
friend were locked safely in the county
jail at Mountain View. Inez, a little
frightened,. was sitting between Waddle
and Percy Dimwiddy.

“But how in hell did you figure it
out?” Waddle asked at last. “All you
did was sit around with your eyes
closed, like you was sleeping. Then
bingo— we hit the jack-pot.”

Inez looked up at Percy with dreamy,
worshipping eyes.

“He has a gift,” she said. “He does
read minds, and he even picks up
thoughts after people think them.”
Waddle chuckled.

“That’s good!” He started to laugh
and his cheeks got very red. “That’s
rich! I’ll sound convincing if I try to
tell the Chief that story.”

“I can’t understand why Kern was
going to kill you! ” Percy drew her close
to him with a big arm.

“I was trying to help you,” Inez
confessed. A shudder passed through
her. “I asked a lot of questions and
finally he made me admit I thought he
was the murderer. They were going
to throw me in the lake.”

“If it hadn’t been fer our thought
detective,” Waddle admitted, “they
might have succeeded.”

MIKE ROBERTS had no further
use for his office. Kern didn’t
need an agent any longer. At eleven-
fifteen Monday morning, the inter-
office set on Inez Mathew’s desk buzzed.
She snapped the button down.

“Yes, Mr. Dimwiddy?”

“Miss Mathew, will you take a let-
ter?”

Inez, armed with pencil and note-
book, entered Roberts’ former office. A
new sign, Percy Dimwiddy — Private
Detective, was painted on the door.
“Yes, Mr. Dimwiddy?”

He smiled at her.

140

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“I’m glad you weren’t mixed up in
that counterfeit money business,” he
said. “I figured, after you talked to me,
that Kern must have a good reason for
peddling his money around that way.
Randy Edwards got wise and was ready
to tell the police. Edwards was think-
ing about it just before he died and I
picked up his thoughts. The word coun-
terfeit fitted in with Kern’s thoughts
about paper and plates. I figured he
was trying to get you to Mountain
View and his printing plant must be
up there. You thought quite a lot of
Kern, didn’t you?”

Inez shook her heacf.

“It was you, silly!” she admitted.
“After I talked with you, I decided
to go to Mountain View with him. I
tried to help you, but he was too clever.
He found out why I went and was going
to kill me before I could tell on him.”

Percy Dimwiddy sighed.

“It’s all over now, I guess.”

“I — I think I’m going to like my
new job,” Inez confessed. “I’m sure
we’ll— that is— you will make a fine pair
— er — that is, a fine detective.”

Percy blushed.

“What you’re really thinking is, w r e’d
make a nice man and wife,” he re-
minded her. “Please sit down, Miss
Mathew.”

Inez looked around for a chair, found
none, and was pulled down onto Percy’s
knee. For the next two minutes she
struggled half-heartedly to release her-
self.

“You big goof,” she managed be-
tween kisses. “How could a wife keep
secrets from you?”

Percy scowled. “You’d better not.
try,” he warned.

The End

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But the acid itself had never been isolated. That
feat Scheele accomplished, recovering it in the
form of colorless transparent crystals which, many
years later, were found to possess the very curious
property, when gently wanned, of becoming
strongly electrified, the opposite sides of each

crystal exhibiting the opposite states of that form
of energy. He made no attempt to resolve this
new compound into its component elements and,
in fact, none of the three were then even known,
except hydrogen, which went under the name of
phlqgiston.

His next important discovery, in 1774, was the
gas chlorine, which he called “dephlogisticated
marine acid gas,” as he recovered it from sea salt.
He did not become aware of its elementary char-
acter, and it was not until Davy, thirty years
later, isolated it, that it was given the name it
now bears. In the same year Scheele produced
baryta for the first time. He extracted it from
the mineral witherite, but did not push his in-
vestigation any further. It was to him simply a
new substance. But again Davy, in 180S, follow-
ing his lead, and using a powerful voltaic battery,
separated the metal barium from it, and proved
its elementary nature.

In 1775 Scheele discovered the gas oxygen,
without the knowledge that it had been discovered
by Priestley in 1774. Scheele gave it the name
of empyrial air. A little later the name of “vital
air” was suggested for it, because not only could
it be breathed to a limited extent with impunity,
but when inhaled caused a wonderful sensation
of exhilaration.

Finally, in 1770, Scheele produced accidentally
in his laboratory, a syrupy liquid with a sweet
taste, which he called glycerin; and shortly there-
after, in much the same way, the. highly poison-
ous compound hydrocyanic acid, which was popu-
larly known in his time as prussic acid. In neither
case was he able to determine its ultimate com-
position. Both of these substances are of impor-
tance in the arts, especially glycerin, which was
thoroughly investigated by Chevreul.

Scheele was in no sense a chemist. In fact, that
science had hardly come into existence in his time.
But he was an earnest and tireless investigator of
the alchemistic order, and while practically all his
discoveries were chance ones, he deserves the
credit for them. It was just such a chance dis-
covery that he happened to encounter that com-
pound of arsenic and copper which is still known
commercially as “Scheele’s Green,” and which is
extensively used in the arts connected with the
production of wall paper and printed calico.

141

APPOINTMENT

WITH THE PAST

Under their amazed eyes, boat
and oarsman began slowly to
fade into eerie nothingness

From the sixteenth century
came a fantastic ghost gaiiot,
seeking two men from today who
could rectify an ancient wrong

C APTAIN JOHN WEDGE of the
Red Widow watched the Dutch
gaiiot heave to. In spite of the
badly tattered sails and the weath-
ered condition of the vessel, Wedge
recognized Captain Vanderdecken’s
ship at once.

Wedge swung down the ladder grace-
fully and dropped into the long-boat.
Ruff Slants, the mate, leaned far over
the rail.

“Put a shot into her mainmast if
she tries to show her heels,” Wedge
shouted.

The mate grinned broadly. His small
eyes were glistening.

“Aye, sir!” His voice rumbled like
far-off thunder. “We’ll teach them a
thing or two. Don’t you worry, Cap-
tain.”

143

144

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

Wedge settled his splendidly attired
figure in the prow of the long-boat and
pulled the plumed hat down close to his
eyes.

“Pull away,” he ordered. “We’ve a
score to even with Captain Hans Van-
derdecken.”

The long-boat swept away from the
Free Rover’s ship and sped swiftly
across the green swells of the Atlantic.
Captain Wedge was right enough about
the weather-tossed ship that had come
around and stood by off some five hun-
dred yards. The Oriental, a three-
masted Dutchman with tattered, dirty
sails, had seen hard days since Wedge
had watched her slip under the mighty
guns of the Sovereign of the Seas and
clear the English coast for Tunis.

Captain Hans Vanderdecken was a
quiet, honorable man. As a Dutchman,
he loved his country and went to many
ends to preserve his own reputation.
He stood now at the rail of the Oriental
waiting for the slim, polished long-boat
as it knifed the waves toward him.
He knew that Captain Wedge and his
splendid fighter, the Red Widow, were
on an unpleasant mission.

Hans Vanderdecken was no fighter;
yet he was not the one to run from a
battle. The Red Widow carried thirty-
two heavy cannon. His own craft had
but sixteen on her gun deck and his men
had little spirit left for fighting.

The Dutchman held his ground, his
velvet clothing faded and spotted by
sun and salt water. His face was un-
kempt and covered by a rough beard.
Behind him, a sullen crew presented
no better appearance. They had known
what was coming and waited stolidly,
unafraid of the death that they had
faced so often.

The long-boat scraped the side of the
ship. Captain Vanderdecken met John
Wedge at the rail, offering his arm to
assist the Free Rover aboard.

Wedge, his handsome face stormy
with anger, vaulted over the rail alone,
ignoring Vanderdecken’s gesture of
friendship.

“Captain Hans Vanderdecken.”
Wedge’s voice was sharp. “It seems
you couldn’t escape us, for all your
blundering about the sea.”

Vanderdecken’s face expressed sad-
ness and bewilderment at once.

“But, Captain Wedge,” he protested.
“I’ve been searching for you these many
weeks. I had no wish to escape the
Red Widow.”

Wedge’s fists clenched tightly. He
strode a few steps up the deck, turned
and faced the Dutchman, trying to con-
trol his temper.

r J''HREE of the seamen from the Red
Widow had left the long-boat and
were at the rail, waiting for their cap-
tain’s orders. Wedge faced the cap-
tain of the Oriental with head thrown
back, long black hair blowing in the
wind. In silken cape, knee-breeches
and square-toed, buckle-topped shoes,
he was an arrogant, splendid figure of a
man. In contrast with his finery, Van-
derdecken seemed a member of his own
crew. Wedge stared into the Dutch-
man’s sunken blue eyes.

“Captain,” he said calmly. “You
were once an honest man. I trusted you
on a mission that meant life to sixty
of my closest friends. You carried so
vast a fortune that it turned your
head. You failed on that mission, and
now I’m going to punish you as I would
singe the mangy beard of a Spanish
don.”

“First, you will hear my story?”
Vanderdecken’s voice was low, harsh
with emotion.

Wedge reached into the pocket of his
breeches and drew out a small sheet
of rolled parchment. He thrust it
toward Vanderdecken.

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST

145

“This message came overland by-
stage from Tunis,” he said testily.
“Johnathan Fisher’s son escaped from
the Dey. Read it and profit by the
knowledge of what you have done.”

The Dutchman took the scroll hesi-
tantly. It was dated, Tunis, the thir-
tieth day of the third month, 1648.

To My Dear Friend and Loyal Partner,
Captain John Wedge:

“ This message is sent at a poor time.
The ship to which you entrusted the sil-
ver has not arrived. The Dey is
deeply angered and will not wait
longer. We shall, all sixty of us, in-
cluding the women, die at the hands of
the Dey before this reaches you.

I pray to God that my son will escape
and reach you with this message. I
know not who took to sea with the silver
and failed to arrive in time to appease
the Dey’s wrath. I can only say that
whoever he may be, may his ship sail
the sevem, seas without peace for the
remainder of time, and may he never
rest so long as the trade winds blow.”
Your Ob’t Servant,
Johnathan Fisher

Vanderdecken’s eyes swept up to
catch the fanatical fury on Wedge’s
face.

“This is a great injustice,” the
Dutchman protested in a broken voice.
“We arrived outside Tunis only a day
late. There was no point in leaving
the silver, with the terrible deed already
done. I tried to return hastily and re-
port my failure to you.”

Wedge waved his arm angrily.

“No explanation is necessary, Cap-
tain,” he snarled. “You were sent to
save the lives of those unfortunate
people. Nothing can justify your
failure to do so.”

Dutchman and Free Rover stared at
each other. Vanderdecken’s expression

was that of a man who faces an un-
justified death. There was no pity in
Wedge’s eyes. His anger was a deep,
tangible thing that could not be
quenched by explanations.

“Believe me, sir,” Vanderdecken
said haltingly. “Above all, I am a man
of honor. There was mutiny, and
worse, aboard my ship. I was un-
able . . .”

“Enough,” Wedge thundered. “You
shall find no forgiveness in my heart.
You say the silver is still in your hold?”
Vanderdecken nodded hopelessly.
“Every bar,” he said. “I planned to
return it to you.”

Wedge turned toward his own men.
“Lock this blubbering fool in his
cabin,” he shouted. “Signal the mate
to pull alongside and set the grappling
irons. Prepare-to remove the cargo to
the Red Widow.”

INURING the half day it took to
handle the silver, Vanderdecken
remained locked in his cabin. Wedge,
in turn, did not leave his spacious quar-
ters below deck on his own ship. Slants
brought him news that the silver was
in the hold and the Oriental empty of
wealth. Then Wedge went on deck.

In a manner, he pitied Vanderdecken.
The Oriental had once been a fine ship.
Now, her hull covered with barnacles
from many months at sea, and scoured
clean of paint by the storms she had
faced, Vanderdecken’s craft was a sorry
object. Vanderdecken was released
from his cabin at Wedge’s orders.
Wedge waited until the Dutchman
came abreast of him on the other deck.

“Order your crew to cast off,” Wedge
shouted. “Put on a full head of canvas
and stand away.”

Vanderdecken could not answer.
Five minutes later the ships had
scraped slowly apart. Men went
swiftly into the shrouds of the Orien-

146

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

tal. They moved mechanically, ex-
pecting death yet asking no quarter.

The wind stirred the square-rigged
canvas of the main mast and the Dutch
galiot moved away. She cut the water
lazily, as though she no longer had a
goal. The Red Widow remained mo-
tionless. Below, on the gun deck, the
master gunner had ordered powder
broken out and sixteen guns were
primed, with fuses ready. The Orien-
tal was under a full spread of canvas
now and moving swiftly southward.
Captain John Wedge watched her
coolly, calculating a fair distance for
the first shot. He turned to the wait-
ing Master gunner.

“Give her a ball across the bow,” he
said sharply. “When she comes about,
let her have a broadside that will send
her to Davey Jones.”

The first gun roared and smoke
belched from its ugly barrel. The fore-
mast of the Oriental took the blow
squarely and crumpled into the sea.
The Dutch ship swung around slowly,
as though bewildered by the attack.

“Now!” Wedge shouted.

The Red Widoiv groaned in protest
under the force of the sixteen-gun
broadside. A cheer went up from the
quarter deck and the Oriental bucked
suddenly and leaned over like a
wounded thing. Fire broke out below
her decks and licked upward into the
sails. Canvas billowed down like a
dirty shroud over a casket. The Ori-
ental was little more than that. Her
nose dived down sharply. Long, hissing
streamers of smoke floated into the sky
as water came up eagerly and licked
over the foundering ship.

Wedge watched the last bit of timber
as it caught in the whirlpool and
was sucked down behind the stricken
vessel. Then he turned to the mate.

“So much for our fine Captain Van-
derdecken,” he said. “May his death

avenge the murder of my men.”

Slants shook his head slowly.

There was a puzzled, frightened
look on the mate’s ugly face.

“I’m wondering about that curse,
Cap’n Wedge,” he said. “Curses ain’t
put down to be forgotten. They don’t
rest easy until they have been filled.”
John Wedge chuckled.

“Hans Vanderdecken has filled his
part of the bargain,” he said. “I made
sure the Oriental won’t sail after this
day. She’s spiked down snugly in
Davey Jones’ locker.”

CHAPTER II

Passenger to Where?

pOG settled over New York Harbor,
blotting out the Statue of Liberty
and Staten Island. A dense blanket
of white hung close to the water. The
Jersey Ferry plowed uncertainly ahead
as though seeking her mooring through
memory of many past trips. In the
wheel house a portly, blue-uniformed
captain kept his ears and eyes alert to
the changing sounds near him.

Fog horns ripped the silence in every
direction. A sullen-faced young man
and a slicker-clad girl leaned over the
lower rail, watching the barely visible
water as it drifted below them. Robert
Fisher, of medium height and handsome
in a sullen, tired way, waited for the
girl to make some explanation. At
last she looked up, staring at him with
brown, tear-filled eyes.

“Then it’s to be that way?” she asked
in a low voice.

Fisher turned suddenly, pushing her
against the rail, his hands dosing tightly
over her wrists.

“You’re damned right,” he said
harshly. “You’ve been running around
with the heel and you don’t deny it. The
News job keeps me busy but I still

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST

147

manage to get around a lot nights.”

She struggled silently, trying to re-
lease his grip on her arms.

“Please, Bob, you’re hurting me.”

“And I’ll hurt you worse,” Bob
Fisher said. “I’m not playing second
fiddle to Adams. You’re a two-tim-
ing . .

Arlene Williams managed to release
one hand. She brought it across his
cheek with all her strength.

“You’re the most stubborn, unrea-
sonable man I’ve ever seen. I’ve had
dinner with Mr. Adams a few times.
We work at the same office. I don’t
like being alone, and I can’t see that
any harm is done . . .”

She bit her lip and blood showed
against the smooth whiteness of her
teeth.

“I told you to stay away from him,”
Fisher almost shouted. “Now, by God,
it’s all over between us. I’ll take the
ring and we’ll call it quits.”

Arlene Williams stamped her small
foot against the deck.

“Ralph Adams is a much finer person
than you will ever be.”

“Shut up!”

The girl drew the engagement ring
from her finger. Her lips quivered
angrily. Fire flashed from the brown
eyes.

“Don’t ever speak to me again,” she
said. “Take your ring and — and toss it
into the water if you want to.”

Her sharp heels clicked firmly
against the deck. Fisher had one
glimpse of smooth, silken legs as she
rounded the deck house. Then he was
alone.

The ferry ploughed slowly ahead.
Fisher leaned over the rail staring
moodily into the oily waters. With a
gesture of resignation he tossed the
ring into the water and watched the
flash of the small stone as it sank.

Below deck, bells started ringing

loudly. Fisher glanced toward the
wheel house, a puzzled frown on his
face. The ferry wouldn’t land for sev-
eral minutes yet. He heard the cap-
tain shout hoarsely from the top-deck.

“Ahoy there, come about, or you’ll
run us down!”

'pHE stout officer was leaning over
the rail above Fisher’s head, a mega-
phone held tightly to his lips. Fisher
tried to see through the fog ahead but
the wet vapor curtain hid everything.
The engines stopped abruptly and the
ferry floated slowly ahead. He could
hear the passengers gathering behind
him, the excited whispers near his
elbow. Then a strange, weather-beaten
ship struck the side of the ferry and
scraped slowly along the rail. Long
grappling hooks flew from above,
caught on the rail and drew the two
vessels tightly together.

The ship — from what he could make
out through the mist — was like noth-
ing Robert Fisher had ever seen. It
towered above them, the brightly col-
ored sails partly hidden in the fog.
From its masts, like something from a
pirate book, canvas flapped idly in the
slowly rising breeze.

The captain of the ferry was cursing
loudly. Then a man leaned over the
rail of the sailing vessel. He was dressed
in an oddly pointed hat with a red
plume. His coat, fashioned from blue
velvet, had lace cuffs and a white lace
collar about the neck. The stranger’s
face, that of a man of about fifty, held
a strange, sad quality that puzzled
Robert Fisher.

The man’s eyes studied the deck of
the ferry and suddenly met Fisher’s
gaze. He turned and spoke to some-
one out of sight behind him in a strange
tongue that Fisher could not under-
stand.

Robert Fisher felt his knees go sud-

148

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

denly weak. He wanted to turn and
run, yet stood waiting, as though hyp-
notized by what was taking place.

The ferry captain was still sputter-
ing. Commuters moved away quickly
and took refuge in the main cabin.

“Get that blasted carnival ship out
of the way!” the captain howled.
“You’ve got harbor traffic tied up.”

The man on the ship ignored him.
It was as though only one man were
visible to his eyes,

“You’re name is Fisher — Robert
Fisher?” he called.

Fisher nodded slightly, and then
wished he hadn’t.

“Good! Prepare to come aboard.”

“Come aboard?” Fisher gulped.
Suddenly there was a deep, terrible fear
within him.

He saw the two seamen as they swung
over the rail and clambered down to
him. Their dress was simple, crude.
Bright bandanas were wrapped tightly
around their heads. They carried long,
glittering cutlasses.

“I — I don’t understand.” Fisher,
still wanting to run, reached up and
grasped the wet ladder dangling from
the mystery ship’s rail above him.

“There is no time for explanations,”
the man on the ship said. “You are
to come aboard at once.”

The seamen were at his side now,
ready to carry out their orders.

Fisher had a strange feeling that he
was suddenly living a dream. He
started to climb up the rungs of the
rope ladder. Once he had gained the
railing, he looked back and saw Arlene
Williams running along the deck of the
ferry toward him. There was fright in
her eyes.

“Bob!” she shouted. “Bob, come
back!”

Already her voice sounded far away,
as in another world. He had no control
of his own emotions. The whole thing

was like a shock to his body, leaving
him with no will to act as his own
master.

“Please, Bob!” Arlene’s voice rose
to a scream of terror. “Get off that
ship!”

JLTE WAS standing at the rail. Beside
him, the strangely dressed captain
of the old vessel stood watching him
intently. Seamen were rushing about
the deck. The whistles and sounds of
the harbor were growing faint. When
he looked again the ferry had disap-
peared. Only the faint, rippling black-
ness of water was below. He looked
up at straight masts and slowly filling
sails. Wind was sending the fog up in
snake-like wisps and the whole length
of the polished deck was visible. Then
the strange sails filled and billowed out.
They snapped and creaked in the wind.
The fresh air blowing in Fisher’s face
brought his senses back to him.

He turned to the strange captain.

Before he could open his lips to pro-
test the man spoke to him.

“I know the Oriental seems a strange
ship to you. We have a long voyage
to make. However I give you my
promise that I am your friend. You
shall have an explanation- after you have
rested awhile.”

Rested? Fisher thought he would
rest like a caged animal, brought here
almost against his will and trapped as
surely as though ten feet of concrete
separated him from the things he knew.

Why he had come he couldn’t guess,
unless, in his own anger toward Arlene,
he thought that any escape from the
old routine would offer him relief.

CHAPTER III
Second Passenger

^J^HE building was on the New Or-
leans waterfront. The night was

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST

149

foggy and dark. A single light burned
on the second floor, sending a pale yel-
low gleam across the dark water below
the pier. The door to the lighted room
was stenciled Laird and Wedge — Ma-
rine Insurance.

The title was misleading. Jim Wedge
was no longer a partner. He and Laird
had broken their partnership a little
over an hour before. It was a bitter
parting, filled with accusations and
anger.

Laird, a stout, bald-headed man of
forty had started James Wedge in busi-
ness five years ago. Wedge had plenty
of ability, but he also had a bad tem-
per. It flared often, and usually beyond
his control.

Laird sat stiffly behind the desk as
Wedge, mouthing a steady tirade of
abuse, paced the floor.

"And I say I borrowed the cash hon-
estly and will leave the full sum, plus
interest, at the bank on Monday,” Laird
said quietly.

Jim Wedge, tall and brown-skinned,
whirled about, his blue eyes boring an-
grily into Laird’s. He pounded on the
desk top with his fist.

“We were partners,” he shouted.
“You had no right to take that money
without consulting me first.”

“I told you before,” Laird answered
quietly, “that since you didn’t plan
to come home until tonight, I knew of
no way to consult you first. I had the
chance to make an investment that will
net plenty. The money is safe. I have
a receipt for it from one of the city’s
biggest brokers.”

“That’s not the point,” Wedge per-
sisted. “We agreed to handle the com-
pany funds together. It’s the principle
of the thing. I say that in taking the
money without my knowledge, you com-
mitted a breach of trust.”

“You’re a hot-headed young fool!”
Laird stood up, leaning on the desk.

His breath was beginning to come hard.
“Rules are fine, but when you’ve lived
a few years longer, you’ll find they oc-
casionally have to be changed to fit the
case.”

“Damn you, Laird!” Wedge’s face
turned brick-red. “You’re a smooth
one. How do I know you’ll return the
money?”

Laird’s fists tightened but his voice
remained under control.

“I’ve taken enough of your talk,” he
said. “That finishes it. You and I are
washed up — finished. I’ll have the full
amount of the check sent to your bank
on Monday. From now on the partner-
ship is dissolved.”

“And good riddance,” Wedge said
testily.

He snatched his hat from the desk,
wheeled about and slammed the door
behind him as he went into the hall. He
walked swiftly downstairs and out into
the darkness. He groped his way across
the planking of the wharf toward the
gate to the street. Blinded by the fog
and his own anger he couldn’t find the
gate in the blackness. He wandered
about slowly, trying to locate the fence.
He was afraid to get too close to the
edge of the wharf. No one would be
around to lend a hand if he fell into the
bay.

He hesitated, trying to get his bear-
ings by sound. The faint splashing of
water came from below him. A fog
horn was roaring in the distance. There
was a boat somewhere near. He could
hear the water lapping against its sides
and the scraping of oars as they rubbed
in invisible oarlocks.

A voice spoke to him from the water.

“You’re name is Wedge?”

He whirled around, cold sweat on his
forehead.

“Who are you?” he demanded
hoarsely.-

“The ship is waiting for you in the

150

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

harbor,” the voice said.

^^EDGE waited silently. The
T sound of the oars was stilled. He
wondered if Laird had promoted some
wild scheme to be rid of him. Then,
hearing footsteps near him in the fog,
he turned and started to run. His shoe
caught between the planks and he went
down heavily.

“No one will harm you.” The same
voice, low and cultured, was close to
him. “You are needed to make my
voyage successful.”

He struggled to his feet. A rough
hand was on his shoulder and he lashed
out with his fist, trying to find the body
behind it. Something hit him on the
head and he slumped down, white-hot
pain in his head.

Wedge was sure that he didn’t en-
tirely lose consciousness, yet when he
was again in possession of his senses,
he was in a small boat. Wedge lifted
himself carefully from the planks. He
stared uncertainly at the man opposite
him.

“I’m sorry my men had to treat you
roughly,” the stranger said. “But I
could not risk losing you. I have
searched for a long time.”

“If Dave Laird is in on this,” Wedge
said angrily, “I’ll see him in hell for
his trouble.”

He couldn’t make sense of his sur-
roundings. The man near him was
dressed in Seventeenth Century Dutch
clothing. He looked like something
from the Mardi Gras with plumed hat,
velvet coat and breeches worn above
white silk stockings. His shoes were
square-toed and topped with silver
buckles.

“I know not of a Dave Laird,” he
said. “Allow me to introduce myself.
I am Captain Hans Vanderdecken of
the good ship Oriental .”

“Cut the comic opera,” Wedge said.

The boat was cutting the water swift-
ly, two men at the oars. Wedge waited
for some chance to escape. The boat
slowed and drifted now. A voice called
out from above them. It was in a for-
eign tongue that Wedge could not un-
derstand.

“Aye,” the Dutchman answered.
“We’ve found our man.”

Wedge strained his eyes toward the
rough planked sides of the vessel.
Above his head was a row of cannon,
different from any he had ever seen,
jutting from the side of the craft. He
heard sails snapping gently in the fog
and the steady creak of masts as they
leaned to the breeze.

Suddenly Wedge sprang to his feet
and jumped into the water. Before he
could take more than a few swimming
strokes, however, he felt a crush-
ing blow on his head. These
beggars were handy with a be-
laying pin. The water started to
creep over his face and a strong arm
went around his neck. After that he
choked from the water he had swal-
lowed and heard far away voices, as
though in a dream. Try as he might,
Jim Wedge could fight no more.
Abruptly, his senses left him.

CHAPTER IV

Pair of Pawns

O OBERT FISHER awakened from
a troubled sleep. He climbed
wearily from the rude bunk, realizing
that for the first time in many hours the
Oriental was in quiet waters. Fisher
was no sailor. The nightly trip on the
Jersey Ferry was his one contact with
boats. Just how long he had been on
the Oriental, he couldn’t guess. They
had locked him in a tiny cabin below
deck where he had awakened only long
enough to be sick, sinking into a deep
slumber when his stomach calmed. His

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST

151

sole companion, a small black kitten,
was poor company.

He knew little of Captain Vander-
decken and still less of the crew. There
had been no explanation given and
Fisher was much too sick to care what
had happened since he left the ferry.

Now that the ship no longer swayed
and groaned in the wind, he felt better.
There were voices outside the hull of
vessel. At first he hoped a rescue party
was boarding the Oriental. Then foot-
steps sounded on the deck above.

He had not attempted to leave the
cabin before. To his surprise, the door
was unlocked. He stepped outside,
staggered and clutched the wall to keep
from falling. The black kitten rubbed
on his shoes and purred contentedly.
Fisher walked slowly along the dark
passage outside the cabin, saw light
sifting down the stairs ahead of him
and went toward it. Footsteps were
descending the steps. He moved swift-
ly into the shadows below the stairs and
waited. Two seamen came down, car-
rying the limp, water-soaked figure of
a tall young man. They passed Fisher’s
hiding place, entered a cabin across the
passage-way and came out without their
captive. He waited, holding his breath
as they came near him and went back
up to the deck.

Fisher walked hesitantly toward the
cabin. He pushed the door open quick-
ly and stepped inside. The man jumped
from his bunk, fists clenched, and stag-
gered toward him.

“Who the hell are you?”

Fisher grinned.

“A friend in need,” he said sourly.
“We both seem to be in — or on — the
same boat. My name is Robert Fisher.”

James Wedge relaxed.

“My name’s Wedge,” he said slowly.
“Jim Wedge. Did they kidnap you?”

Fisher nodded.

“Took me from New York Harbor

in a fog,” he said. “It’s all so damned
puzzling.”

Wedge sat down and started to re-
move his water-soaked clothing.

“For me, too,” he said. “Did you say
you were from New York?”

“Right,” Fisher answered. “Worked
for the News. I was on the ferry head-
ed for Jersey, when this boat picked me
up.”

Wedge looked up, puzzled.

“I can’t make it out,” he admitted.
“Here we are in New Orleans. Why in
hell did they come all the way down the
coast and into the gulf just to find me.
We must have been chosen pretty care-
fully for whatever use they intend to
put us to.”

Fisher stood quietly as Wedge re-
moved his outer clothing and placed it
over the edge of the bunk where it
would dry.

“You’re sure this is New Orleans?”
he asked.

Wedge scowled.

“I was in my office half an hour ago,”
he said. “I ought to know.”

Fisher’s eyes wandered about the
cabin.

“I guess I’ve been on board two or
three days,” he said, in offering an ex-
planation. “I’ve been sick most of the
time. The only man who seems to be
able to talk English is the captain. He
won’t tell me why I am here or what’s
in store for me. He did say that he
was my friend and that I need not fear
him.”

Wedge chuckled.

“I left behind an incident in my life
that wasn’t very pleasant,” he said.
“I’m not so sure that I’m sorry for all
this, now that I’ve had some time to
think it over.”

Fisher seemed a little startled at Jim
Wedge’s confession. He remembered
his own quarrel with Arlene. When he
thought of it that way, there wasn’t

152

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

much left for him in New York.

T^jTEDGE was busy over a small sea-
chest in the corner.

“It seems we have clothing/’ he said.
“That is, if we’re not fussy.”

He pulled out a pair of blue trousers,
a striped red-and-white shirt and started
to put them on. Half-way through the
task, he hesitated, bent over and drew
a small paper ticket from the chest. He
studied it, then passed the slip to Fisher.
“Can you make anything of this?”
Fisher studied the slip.

“Written in Dutch,” he said. “I
know that much. Can’t read it, though.
Wait!”

He studied the paper more closely.
His face turned white and he read in a
harsh, low voice.

“Good ship, Oriental, Captain Hans
Vanderdecken in command, the year of
1648.” Fisher hesitated, looking up.
“That much is clear enough.”

Jim Wedge’s face mirrored his be-
wilderment.

“Brother!” he said in a shocked
voice. “Ships don’t sail around for
three centuries.”

All trace of humor was wiped clean
from Fisher’s face. He stood very still,
listening to the wind as it hissed through
the sails above deck. The cabin was
silent, save for the steady creaking of
the masts. There was a high sea run-
ning, rolling the Oriental slowly from
side to side.

“I wish we were sure of that,” he said
huskily. “I — wish — we — were— sure.”

CHAPTER V

"We'l! Singe a Mangy Beard"

\X7'HAT greeting they would receive
T from the ship’s captain, Jim
Wedge and Robert Fisher didn’t know.
Together, they decided to face Captain
Vanderdecken and demand an explan-

ation. Fisher stepped into the sunlight
of the upper deck first. The Oriental
was at sea. As far as the eye could see,
green-rolling water swept away to the
horizon. The men of the ship were
busy, hurrying about the deck in a
workmanlike manner. They paid no
attention to the two Americans who
advanced hesitantly across the rolling
deck.

Wedge stretched himself carefully,
breathing deeply of the clean air.

“Damned if I know where we are,”
he said. “But it’s the first good air
I’ve had today. I’ve a feeling this isn’t
going to be half bad.”

Captain Vanderdecken saw them
from his post on the quarter-deck. He
approached with the rolling easy stride
of a man long accustomed to ships. The
wind had whipped new color into his
cheeks and his eyes were sparkling.
“You have both rested, I see.”

Jim Wedge took command of the con-
versation automatically. There was
something in his superior size and com-
manding personality that made Robert
Fisher happy to let the big man handle
his interests.

“Captain,” Wedge said firmly,
“you’ve treated us well enough. Aside
from that crack on the head, I’ve no
kick coming. What do you propose do-
ing with us, now that your job of kid-
naping has been successful?”

Vanderdecken remained silent, as
though planning just what explanation
he should give. Seamen passed them,
so intent on their work that they did
not seem to notice the presence of stran-
gers on board. Fisher watched the men
of the Oriental with gradually growing
concern. More and more he became
sure that were he invisible they could
pay no less attention to him. At last
Vanderdecken spoke, his voice hesitant
as though not knowing how much to
tell them.

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST

153

“I know that the hardest part of my
mission is to free you men from worry.
Unfortunately I cannot tell you every-
thing that will become more evident in
days to come. Until an explanation can
be given, please trust me . .

“Hold it!” Wedge interrupted an-
grily. “You’re not telling us a thing.
Are we to consider ourselves your pris-
oners?”

Vanderdecken’s eyes snapped sud-
denly and an expression of anger be-
came visible on his face.

“I had hoped that time would change
many things,” he said bitterly. “I find
the same intolerance still waiting to
keep me from my goal. Yes, gentle-
men, if you choose to be unfriendly,
consider yourself my prisoners until
further notice.”

“You refuse to tell us why we were
brought aboard your ship?”

“I think it unwise at present,” Van-
derdecken snapped. “Your only con-
tact is with me. The men are Dutch.
They will ignore you until such time as
I give them instructions to do other-
wise. You will do exactly as I say.”
“Then, damn you,” Wedge said, tak-
ing a threatening step forward, “you
may expect nothing but trouble from
us. I, for one, will not be dragged about
the seven seas. I’ll take the first oppor-
tunity to escape that presents itself.”
Vanderdecken stared at him.

“That would be unwise,” he said
gently. “If you will look at the rather
crude calendar that I keep carved in
the main-mast, you will note the date
as March first, the year as 1648. I’m
afraid, gentlemen, that the calendar is
accurate enough to assure you of being
picked up by some Spanish galleon or
slave ship whose captain would not treat
you so well as I intend to.”

Fisher remembered the tag in the
small chest below deck. His eyes wid-
ened in sudden fear. Wedge was not

so easily frightened.

“And I say you’re a liar!” he
stormed. “The days of fairy tales are
over. This tub may be dressed up like
a flagship of the Spanish Armada. It
proves nothing to me, except you and
your crew are a bunch of screwballs.”

pAPTAIN VANDERDECKEN
^ seemed indifferent to this last out-
burst. His eyes were focused on a tiny
black dot that was growing against the
horizon. Now he drew a metal tube
from his pocket and walked quickly
toward the rail. The tube was about
two feet long, hollow, and bound with
brass rings. He stood there for some
time, and when he turned back to his
prisoners, there was a strange glint in
his eyes.

“They call this a Dutch trunk,” he
said, holding the instrument out to
Wedge. “Fate has ruled that our first
meeting with the accursed Dons would
be at this point. If you will look at
the approaching galleon through this,
I’m sure you’ll accept as true what I
told you a few moments ago.”

Jim Wedge snatched the glass from
him and stared through it toward the
other ship. A frown crossed his face
and he handed the tube to Fisher.

Silently, Fisher stared through the
glass at the speck on the sea. Although
blurred and imperfect, the image he saw
was a huge, black-decked galley, re-
splendent with bright sails, carved fig-
ure-head and a row of black-muzzled
cannon that protruded from her sides
just below the rail. He turned, the
glass held limply in his fingers.

“I guess,” he said in a low voice,
“that does it. I’m damned sure this
isn’t my idea of 1943.”

Wedge was glaring fiercely at the
captain.

“I’m still not so sure that this isn’t
some sort of a DeMille production,” he

154

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

said angrily.

Vanderdecken looked puzzled.

“DeMille?”

Wedge shrugged.

“Forget it, Captain. What do we do
now?”

Vanderdecken took the glass once
more and studied the Spanish ship for
several minutes.

“Equip yourselves with cutlasses
from the sea chest below deck,” he said
abruptly. “We shall engage the Donna
Marie before the day is over.”

Wedge seemed surprised.

“And just what would the Donna
Marie — I take it that’s yonder boat’s
name — want with this old tub?”

Vanderdecken wet his lips.

“There are many things you do not
know concerning our ship. For one, we
are carrying silver bars in the hold.
Philip of Spain needs silver badly.
We’ll singe his mangy beard before the
sun sets this day.”

CHAPTER VI
Baptism of Fire

“jSJIGHTMARE or not,” Jim Wedge
said to Fisher. “We sure as hell
are gonna fight that Spanish ship.”

Several hours had passed since their
conversation with the captain. During
that time, sea chests were broken out
and cutlasses distributed to all the men.
The gun deck was seething with life.
Shot and powder were dragged up from
below and everything movable was bat-
tened down tightly.

“They say the pen is mightier than
the sword,” Fisher said, running his fin-
ger along the sharp edge of a cutlass.
“Right now I wish I’d taken fencing in
high school.”

The Donna Marie was half a mile to
the rear and coming up fast. Fisher
and Wedge were drawn close by their

common danger. Fisher, smaller and
less imaginative, left leadership to his
stronger companion. Wedge, in turn,
liked the smaller man because of his
ready laugh and his willingness to see
everything in the best light possible.

They had talked long and calmly of
their situation, and decided to make the
best of it.

To Wedge’s surprise, although Van-
derdecken had prepared for battle, the
Dutchman kept his ship under a full
head of canvas and was making a run
for it. Toward five o’clock they saw
Vanderdecken coming toward them
across the quarter deck. He carried a
brace of pistols in his sash and the
heavy cutlass dragged against his hip
as he walked. There was no alarm in
his voice as he greeted them.

“I see you are both armed. The
Donna Marie will be within range in
half an hour if the wind holds. I at-
tempted to out-run her, although I knew
it would be useless.”

Wedge interrupted him.

“As little as I know about ships,” he
protested. “Surely this small ship can
be equipped to outsail so large a ves-
sel?”

Vanderdecken shrugged.

“It has been thus before,” he said.
“Fate decided my first voyage; the oth-
ers are patterned after it. You had best
be resigned to defend yourselves.”

He stared at the Donna Marie, now
almost within firing distance.

“Just what is to prevent our ship es-
caping?” Fisher asked.

“You will understand all these things
in due course,” the Dutchman said.
“Meanwhile, be careful. The Spaniards
fight trickily, so keep a wall at your
back lest they strike from behind.”

He wheeled and left them alone.
Fisher stared at Jim Wedge.

“I’m damned,” he said, “if I like this.
I wonder if he really wants us to come

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST

155

through this alive?”

r j ’HE Oriental was ready for battle.

A Men with loaded muskets swarmed
high into the shrouds, ready to fire down
on the deck of the Donna Marie. The
ship’s sixteen small cannon were loaded,
and sweating, grim-faced gunners were
ready to light the fuses. Wedge, keep-
ing his post at the deck house, watched
with fascination as the Donna Marie
came abreast of them. The side of the
huge galley was bristling with guns.
Men, their heads bound in bright cloth,
stood with cutlasses in their teeth, ready
to board. He heard the thin, high notes
of a horn sound across the water.

Vanderdecken was everywhere, keep-
ing his men in check, watching every
inch that the Spaniard gained as it
swing along-side. The Donna Marie
loosed its first broadside and the sky
was suddenly black with smoke as the
cannon belched their loads. The shots
fell into the water, fifty yards short of
the Oriental’s hull.

“Good!” Vanderdecken shouted.
“Let the fools waste their ammuni-
tion.”

“That guy’s got guts,” Wedge said,
and Fisher nodded.

“Either that, or he isn’t much worried
about this attack.”

Wedge looked thoughtful.

“You’d think he’d been through the
same thing before,” he said. “Nothing
surprised him from the first.”

The Donna Marie was close in now.
She heeled over stiffly before the wind,
coming on confidently as though all
ready to board. The cannon roared
again and shot ripped through the up-
per sails, sending shredded canvas flut-
tering to the deck. Somewhere aloft, a
man screamed and his body hurtled
down. Blood spattered as he hit the
deck.

Below, the Oriental’s guns awakened

and sent a volley across the water.
Wedge could see them hit and bounce
away from the Donna Marie. Some
found their mark and wood splinters
flew into the air. The main-mast of the
Donna Marie crumpled suddenly and
crashed to the deck. The sails dipped
and dropped into the sea. Men swarmed
over the wreckage, cutting the mast
loose from the deck.

A cheer went up from the Oriental’s
gun deck and a new volley followed the
first.

The Donna Marie was so close, now,
that her sails mingled with the Orien-
tal’s canvas and the red and yellow
standards, flying from her masts, were
almost over Fisher’s head. The ships
hit and grappling irons flew through the
air to draw them tight. The guns of
the Donna Marie were pointed high in
the air, where they could do nothing but
pound at the Oriental’s masts.

The Oriental had one chance. Her
own cannon were directed low, in a po-
sition to blast away at the hull of the
Spaniard. As long as they were in ac-
tion, Captain Vanderdecken had a slim
chance.

Fisher grasped the hilt of his cutlass
and waited. Ahead of him, Wedge
swung his weapon wide and sprang to-
ward the first Spaniard to come aboard.
The crew of the Donna Marie swarmed
down the ropes or leaped straight from
the rail to the deck of the Oriental. Van-
derdecken, three men at his side, dashed
into the melee with pistols roaring. Men
were shouting oaths, screaming and dy-
ing about him. Fisher saw Wedge
forced slowly backward by the expert
blades of the enemy. Wedge was get-
ting the worst of it.

gUDDENLY awake to the desperate
situation his friend was in, Fisher
ran forward, swinging the cutlass with
anger that amazed him. The fury of

156

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

his attack sent Wedge’s adversary reel-
ing back and Fisher’s blade plunged
into the Spaniard’s throat. Wedge
gained time, pivoted and took on an-
other fighter. He plunged the blade
deep, ripped it out savagely and lunged
again. It was like a terrible dream.
Time after time he wiped the sweat
from his eyes, saw the blurry figure of
another Spaniard rushing him, and
fought wildly to preserve his own life.
Always Fisher was near and ready to
take advantage of every opening,

“Stick close!” Wedge managed to
gasp. “We may . . . have a . . .
chance ! ”

Fisher stuck. Below deck, the guns
kept up their murderous steady pound-
ing. The deck was slippery with
blood. Fisher skidded and fell,
staining his coat with the warm moist-
ness of blood.

Fisher, surprised that he was still
alive, felt a new, fierce resentment for
the men of the Donna Marie. The
Dons, Vanderdecken had called them.
Each time his cutlass took a Spaniard’s
life x his heart pounded with the excite-
ment of battle.

“She’s going down!”

He heard the high, shrill voice above
the clanging weapons. It rose and
swelled from the throats of desperate
men.

“The Donna Marie is sinking!”

Barooom!

The cannon roared again and again,
ripping huge holes into the stricken
Spaniard. Both Americans were aware
of a new spirit about them. The Span-
iards turned and ran as though the
Devil were in pursuit. Some fell back,
fighting as they went, trying to regain
the decks of their own vessel. High in
the masts the banner of King Philip of
Spain was cut loose and fluttered down.

Abruptly the balance of the enemy
broke and fled. They swarmed over the

rail of their own vessel, some of them
falling into the narrow chasm of water
between the ships. Vanderdecken, his
coat torn and blood-soaked, was visible
again. Seemingly satisfied at the turn
of events, he turned toward his own
remaining men.

“Free the grappling hooks,” he
shouted. “She’s heeling over.”

Fisher rushed in with the men, tear-
ing the grappling irons away and drop-
ping them into the sea. They worked
furiously, and one by one the irons
clanked free and rattled down the side
of the ship into the water.

The Oriental was free. The force of
the Donna Marie, pushing against her
side, sent the Dutch galiot sidewise and
clear of the enemy vessel. Few of the
Spaniards had escaped to their own
deck without wounds. The Oriental
swung around slowly like a wounded
animal and drifted free. A bare hun-
dred feet separated the two ships. The
Donna Marie tipped far over, the huge
gap in her side already below the wa-
terline. A boat swung free from her
and bobbed across the water. A white
flag hung limply at the bow.

“Give them a taste of grape!” Van-
derdecken shouted. “Let none escape
that bloody hell-ship ! ”

Fisher watched the men in the boat
as she drew close. He pitied the poor
devils, and yet, had they not tried to
murder them all?

Sick revulsion twisted within him as
a single cannon exploded and sent grape
shot into the doomed boat. A broken,
bloody mass of wreckage, it sank quick-
ly, leaving no trace. His eyes shifted
to the Donna Marie. The galleon heeled
far over and slipped quietly beneath
the waves. A cheer went up around
him.

TIM WEDGE had his hat in one
J hand, cutlass swinging limply in the

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST

157

other. There was something about
Wedge, standing strong and undaunted
in the midst of death, that sent a shiver
up Fisher’s spine. It reminded him of
something or someone he had seen once
before. Some bit of bioody glory that
he had witnessed as in a dimly remem-
bered dream.

Fisher fancied at that moment that
Wedge, and not Vanderdecken, con-
trolled the fate of the Oriental. He was
proud of his companion, and yet filled
with a fear that he could not explain.

Wedge turned and approached him
with graceful, firm steps.

“It’s to hell for the Donna Marie,” he
said crisply. “Thanks for the help
when I needed it most. I hope they
can .get this tub back into sailing con-
dition.”

Fisher leaned weakly against the rail.

“I guess we’ve had our baptism of
fire,” he said.

“But good,” Wedge replied gruffly.
“Bob, this beats selling insurance after
all. Let old Vanderdecken keep his se-
cret for a while. I’m beginning to en-
joy life aboard the Oriental.”

Fisher wondered. Wedge was so
damned cock-sure of himself. He
closed his eyes, trying to refresh a fuzzy
memory. It was useless. Wedge fitted
into this as though he were meant for
it. He couldn’t toss away the idea that
he had seen Wedge like this before,
self-assured, ready to plunge into bat-
tle with the odds ten-to-one against
him.

“Hell for the Donna Marie,” Fisher
repeated softly to himself. “I wonder
if this is only the beginning.”

CHAPTER VII
Blood of Mutiny

T17EDGE said, “I’m sure that the
f sinking of the Donna Marie was
no surprise to Captain Vanderdecken.”

Fisher nodded in agreement.

“I remember how he seemed to antic-
ipate every move,” he agreed. “We
were fighting terrific odds, and yet he
never faltered. Yet, I’ll swear he’s not
the type that likes a fight.”

It was late in the afternoon, the third
day after the battle. The Americans
were stretched full length across the
main hatch, staring at a cloudless,
empty sky. The Oriental’s masts were
patched and repaired and almost all
trace of the battle had been removed.
The deck-house still showed jagged
holes where cannon balls had blasted
through it.

The Oriental had been quiet, almost
too quiet for the past two days. Al-
though they understood nothing of what
the crew said, men had gathered in lit-
tle groups and talked among themselves
until they were ordered apart by the
mate. They lounged about afterwards
with scowling faces.

Several times since the battle, Fisher
had caught the mate, a huge Dutchman
named Hendrik von Rundstad, staring
at him as though puzzled by his pres-
ence. Von Rundstad had a sour, un-
healthy look about him that worried
both Fisher and Wedge.

Fisher agreed with Wedge on the sub-
ject of Captain Vanderdecken. The
captain had a manner of dashing away
in time to stop some minor disturbance.
Each time, he returned to them with a
satisfied smile, as though his life was
being lived with a precision that sat-
isfied him.

“Jim,” Fisher said suddenly. “Has it
occurred to you that we’re taking all
this pretty calmly?”

Wedge rolled over on his side and
scowled.

“I don’t know that I understand
you.”

Fisher sat up.

“I mean, being thrown into this im-

158

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

possible situation. A couple of business
men torn up by the roots and tossed
into the past. We go on as though
nothing had happened, and yet Vander-
decken refuses to tell us a thing. Why
do we go on as though we were ac-
tually . . .”

He hesitated and Wedge smiled.

“As though we enjoyed it?” he of-
fered. “To tell the truth, Bob, I do
get a kick out of this new life of mine.
I got mixed up in an unpleasant situa-
tion in New Orleans. That battle with
the Donna Marie satisfied something in-
side of me. It brought a content that
I’ve never known after any undertak-
ing I’ve been through before.”

“I know,” Fisher said impatiently.
“But the future — -what of that?”

“Let the future take care of itself,”
Wedge urged. “The captain has a plan.
How he engineered all this is beyond
me. The past is cut off and we can’t
return to it. Either we follow the path
he has suggested or we’ll lose what lit-
tle sanity we have left. There’s no
choice.”

Fisher got to his feet.

“Another thing!” he said. “These
Dutchmen are planning trouble. I don’t
like the looks of that goon, Hendrick
von Rundstad. Every time he looks at
me, I feel a rope around my neck.”

Wedge allowed an unconcerned grin
to twist his lips.

“Von Rundstad isn’t so tough,” he
said. “I’ve a hunch we can handle him
if he starts anything.”

It was dark, now, and they crossed
the deck slowly, watching the stars as
they grew brighter above the whipping
sails.

Just before Wedge slept, his mind
wandered to Dave Laird and the fight
they had had not so many days ago.

“Maybe not an easier life,” he said
aloud. “But a damn sight more inter-
esting one.”

Fisher stirred in his sleep and mut-
tered something Wedge couldn’t make
out.

“Nothing,” Wedge said. “Get some
sleep, boy. I’m just thinking out loud.”

TT WAS close to morning when Wedge

awakened. He sat up quickly, ears
and eyes alert to the faint sounds above.
He reached for his cutlass. The sounds
came again, padded footsteps on the
deck.

Wedge arose swiftly and slipped into
the boots that the sea-chest had sup-
plied. He decided against awakening
Fisher. There was probably no rea-
son for alarm.

He reached the deck swiftly and
stood deep in the shadows of the hatch
way. Shadowy forms were crossing the
planks, converging near Captain Van-
derdecken’s cabin. The gray light of
dawn was visible, and the ship rocked
and bucked gently in the wind. Wedge
waited, then saw von Rundstad, the
mate, knocking on Vanderdecken’s
door.

They closed in like a silent wolf pack.
Wedge wondered how he could know so
much about these men and what they
were thinking. He was sure it was mu-
tiny. The mate carried a cutlass in one
hand and a pistol in the other. The men
carried on a whispered conversation
that, even if Wedge were able to hear
the words if he were closer, he would
not have understood.

Wedge saw a lantern light up through
the window. He held his cutlass tight-
ly, waiting. Captain Hans Vander-
decken stepped out of the door, bathed
in the yellow rays of the lantern. Nei-
ther surprise nor fear showed in his
expression. His voice was low and con-
trolled, and several of the crew stepped
away from him, as though impressed
with his argument. The men were hesi-
tant, but von Runstad stepped forward,

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST

159

pistol leveled at Vanderdecken’s chest.

A horrible fury filled Wedge and he
sprang forward. The crew shouted
their encouragement to the mate and
Wedge heard the pistol roar. He
stopped short, saw the captain pitch
forward on his face and lay still.

Wedge knew that thus far the crew
had not noticed his approach. Armed
only with the blade, he would stand no
chance in fighting them. He turned and
slipped back into the shadows of the
deck house. Two men were dragging
Vanderdecken back into his cabin. The
group was dispersing. The mate entered
the cabin and, for several minutes there
was activity around the lantern inside.
Then the light faded and the two men
followed von Rundstad to the deck.
They were headed directly toward
Wedge. He went down the stairs
quickly, and back into the cabin where
Fisher was still sleeping. He bolted
the door and waited. They did not fol-
low and for a long time he sat alone,
waiting for Fisher to awaken. The sun
came up at last, with the glinting hard-
ness of copper. Fisher rolled uneasily
in his sleep and muttered under his
breath.

'^^7TIEN Bob Fisher awakened,
Wedge was still sitting on the edge
of the bunk. He said nothing until
Fisher was dressed and about to go on
deck. Then he said:

“Von Rundstad and the crew have
mutinied. Captain Vanderdecken is in
his cabin, either dead or badly wound-
ed.”

Fisher turned, his eyes showing
alarm.

“How did you . . .”

“I awakened when it happened,”
Wedge went on. “I let you sleep be-
cause there was nothing we could do
about it.”

“Now we are in trouble,”. Fisher

said. “The more we see on this ship,
the less I understand.”

He wandered across the cabin, turned
and paced back again as though afraid
to go beyond the door.

“We’ve lost our last chance to es-
cape,” he said. “Von Rundstad will
get rid of us fast, now that he has con-
trol of the ship.”

Wedge stood up and went to the port-
hole. He stared out at the sea.

“I’m not so sure,” he mused. “Von
Runstad had plenty of time to kill us
this morning. He’s left us completely
alone. I stayed awake to make sure he
would.”

Fisher scowled.

“Don’t you believe it,” he cautioned.
“He’ll take care of us when the time
comes.”

CHAPTER VIII
The Bloody Rock

^jpHE Oriental had good sailing
weather for the next week. Those
seven days were a nightmare for Bob
Fisher. Wedge felt a little better,
though his ability to feel at home on
the ship helped somewhat. They were
allowed the full freedom of the deck.
Food was brought to their cabin as
usual and the crew maintained complete
silence. Vanderdecken was missing but
his absence was the only change.

Wedge tried on two occasions to
reach the captain’s door. Each time
he was turned away by the appearance
of half a dozen husky seamen. Yet he
was sure that Vanderdecken was yet
alive. Food was taken to his cabin
twice daily, and by the middle of the
week he could be seen moving about in-
side.

Von Rundstad was in complete charge
of the ship. He pushed the men every
hour of the d§y, keeping the Oriental

160

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

under a full head of canvas. The big
ugly Dutchman carried both pistols and
cutlass constantly and swaggered about
the decks at all hours.

To help Vanderdecken was out of the
question. The two Americans were for-
tunate to have saved their own necks.
They went about the ship quietly, tak-
ing what food was offered them and
avoiding von Rundstad. The mate paid
them no more attention than if they
hadn’t existed at all.

Slowly, Fisher’s interest in the sea
grew, until life was more bearable for
him. He and Wedge spent long hours
mastering the ways of the Dutch galiot.
Wedge taught him the use of the cut-
lass and they both hardened themselves
to the life they were living.

The second week crept by and the
Oriental still tossed and bucked its way
southward on an empty sea. On the
eighth day, Fisher was leaning over the
rail, watching gulls that flew in from the
east. Against the horizon a huge, black
rock appeared, rearing upward into the
sky as they came closer. Fisher rushed
to the cabin and awakened Wedge, who
had been resting throughout the after-
noon.

“Gibraltar!” Fisher shouted. ‘“We’re
headed for Gibraltar!”

Wedge sat up dazedly.

“You’re nuts,” he protested. “You
can’t cross the Atlantic in less than a
month on a tub like this.”

Fisher was too excited to be easily
discouraged.

“I saw it, I tell you.” He hauled
Wedge to his feet. “It’s ahead and
slightly to the east of us. You can spot
it without the glass.”

With one landmark, one familiar
thing to base their hopes on, both men
rushed to the deck. The Oriental had
come around and Gibraltar, stark and
black against the sky, lay dead ahead.
Even Wedge could no longer doubt after

that first look. He stared for a long
time, some of the bewilderment leaving
his face.

“Do you realize that to sail here from
New Orleans would take months on this

vessel?”

Fisher waited. His own ignorance of
the sea forbade any reply. Wedge
grasped his shoulders, staring at him
with wonderment in his eyes.

“You know what that means?”

Fisher shook his head.

“It doesn’t make sense to me,” he
confessed.

Wedge retained his grip. An awed
look filled his eyes.

“We didn’t sail from home,” he said
in a low voice. “This is the last proof
we need that this voyage is beyond un-
derstanding. The Oriental is a Dutch
ship. We fought the Donna Marie a
few days after we left port. In 1648
the Spaniards fought Dutch and Eng-
lish ships as soon as they came into
Spanish waters. I tell you, Bob, this
thing is beginning to make sense, and
I don’t like it.”

H 1 * hands dropped to his side and
he leaned over the rail with eyes
glued on the huge rock ahead.

“It doesn’t add up for me,” Fisher
confessed. “What are you getting at?”

Wedge whirled around.

“We’re in the past, all right,” he said
in a hushed voice. “We’re headed into
the Mediterranean, just as Dutch and
English ships did centuries before our
time. Vanderdecken told us we were
here for a purpose. We’re a couple of
pawns to be played when the time is
ripe.”

“We can make a break for it at Gib-
raltar,” Fisher suggested. “There’s
a narrow strait there. We could jump
ship and swim ashore.”

“No good,” Wedge’s lips tightened.
“If I’m right, and we’ve no reason to

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST

161

think otherwise, this is Gibralter of the
Seventeenth century. The Bloody
Rock, ruled by cutthroats and pirates.
A thousand miles of hell on either side,
one over-run by Berbers and Moslems,
and on the other, King Philip of Spain
with his armies.”

Fisher had no answer. He was star-
ing at the towering stone giant that
grew larger as the Oriental swept on-
ward ahead of a fresh, strong wind.

CHAPTER IX
The Basket

pAPTAIN HANS VANDER-
DECKEN was on deck again.
He had been escorted from his cabin
each morning for a week, by two husky
seamen. There was a difference in the
spirit of the men on board. They still
obeyed von Rundtsad, but the man was
so overbearing that hatred seemed to
be growing against him. The galiot had
been anchored for a week in a small
cove on the Spanish coast. The mate
was waiting for something. Perhaps he
feared the passage through the Inland
Sea until such time as the Oriental
could be repaired for the journey.

Twice, Fisher had seen men whipped
by the mate himself, who wielded the
cat-o-nine tails with the dexterity born
of long practice. The crew grew w 7 eary
of him. More and more, Fisher felt,
Vanderdecken was taking over his old
place at the helm.

Sunday afternoon was hot and still.
The sun burned down, blistering the
planks of the deck and sending men
over the side into the cool water. Van-
derdecken was much better. Although
he had been allowed to talk with no
one but the two who guarded him, the
captain had a new look of confidence
about him as he walked about the deck
in the quiet of the afternoon.

A tension sprang up, as though wills
were about to clash and no one would
guess from where the storm would first
come. Captain Hans Vanderdecken left
his cabin, alone. The mate was sitting
by himself on the steps that led to the
quarter deck. Vanderdecken walked
toward him slowly and several of the
crew fell in behind. Fisher edged closer,
careful to keep out of the group of grim-
faced men.

Vanderdecken halted a few steps
from the mate and spoke to him in a
calm voice. Von Rundstad had evi-
dently been dozing in the sun. He
sprang to his feet, jerking his cutlass
free of his sash. With legs braced well
apart, he faced the members of the
crew who gradually moved in behind
their captain.

He bellowed something in a loud,
angry tone and took a threatening step
forward. Vanderdecken held his
ground. He reached behind him and
took the hilt of a blade one of the men
held for him. The men backed away
slowly and a look of cunning came into
von Rundstad’s eyes. Fisher, realiz-
ing what was about to happen, went
closer. He was afraid the Dutch cap-
tain was still too weak to face the
weapon of the mate.

Vanderdecken danced in swiftly to
deliver the first blow and their blades
met, von Rundstad’s coming down full
force to be halted in mid-air and
pushed aside.

The mate charged like an angry bull,
slashing huge arcs in the air but gain-
ing no blood for his trouble. Vander-
decken was fast. The circle of men
widened and the captain went in again
swiftly, his blade playing a ringing
tattoo against the mate’s weapon.
They fought warily, each dancing
about, taking the touch of metal as
sparingly as possible. The captain was
light on his feet, but the mate, sweating

162

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

and swearing under the hot sun, started
to blunder and stumble when he was in
a tight spot.

How long they parried thrusts, Fisher
wasn’t sure. The sun grew so hot that
he ripped his collar away. His tongue
was dry. Still the men danced around
each other. Thrust, parry and thrust.
Von Rundstad was growing worried.
Much heavier than his opponent, he
couldn’t hope to last much longer. Also,
there was the feeling of shocked sur-
prise that his men had turned against
him. It shone in his eyes, the look of
a betrayer betrayed.

The final blow was swift and came so
suddenly that Fisher felt let down and
disappointed. He had been hoping for
von Rundstad’s death. Vanderdecken’s
weapon darted in swiftly, touched the
mate’s wrist and it was over. Von
Rundstad’s cutlass flew from his nerve-
less fingers and he stood there like a
bewildered ape, holding a severed,
blood-soaked finger. His wrist was cut
to the bone and the finger, where Van-
derdecken’s weapon had slipped down-
ward, had fallen from the hand com-
pletely.

Vanderdecken wiped the blood from
his blade and stepped back. He gave
a single low command and the crew
closed in on von Rundstad.

Fisher turned to go to his cabin.
Wedge would want to know that the
ship had once more changed command.
To his surprise he discovered Jim
Wedge had come out on deck and was
standing just behind him. The same
devil-may-care expression that he had
had during the battle of the Donna
Marie, was on his face.

“I guess Vanderdecken knew what
he was talking about when he told
us to depend on him,” Wedge said.
“From our viewpoint, that fight wasn’t
so much, but considering the times,
Vanderdecken is pretty handy with a

steel blade. You saw that, didn’t you?”

'Y^/TTH Hendrik von Rundstad’s
downfall, the Oriental set sail at
nightfall under a full head of canvas.
Fisher spent hours in the shrouds, his
glass trained on the galleys that swept
past them toward the African coast.
Vanderdecken remained more and more
to himself, and never spoke to them,
even though he was once more free of
his cabin and busy above deck.

Inside the straits, the Oriental was
left unmolested and kept so true a
course that they were sure she was now
close to her destination. Wedge was
busy below deck, working on a crude
calendar he had cut into the beams
of the cabin. Fisher watched life on
the deck below him. The carpenter
was busy building a large cage-like
affair of heavy wooden slats. He had
worked on it since that morning and
the crew detoured widely each time one
of them came close to him. There was
something about that cage with its
solid plank bottom and heavy bars
that sent a vague uneasiness through
Fisher’s mind. The men he had seen
today were tight-lipped and grim. The
Oriental was suddenly a silent, brood-
ing ship.

Wedge came on deck, dressed in
new breeches and a pair of high boots.
Vanderdecken had supplied them both
with new clothing of his own time, and
Wedge looked the part of a swash-
buckling hero.

Hans Vanderdecken was calling all
hands on deck. They lined up, a
nervous, bewildered group who knew
they deserved punishment and hoped
they could evade it.

Hendrick von Rundstad was dragged
into the sunlight before them. This
was a different man than the swag-
gering, bullying mate who had engi-
neered mutiny. He staggered and fell

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST

163

before the captain. When he rose,
his shaggy head was bent forward, eyes
staring at the deck.

Fisher, climbing down slowly,
heard the captain speak and the pro-
testing shout of the mate. It was the
first time he had spoken in English.

“Not da basket! Please Cap’n, not
da basket!”

Vanderdecken stood firm as several
men dragged the carpenter’s creation
across the deck and placed it near the
rail. Fisher reached the deck and went
closer. Von Rundstad howled as
though he were being murdered. Men
grasped him by the arms and dragged
him toward the cage. They forced him
into the wide hole at the top. He
grasped the bars and started to shake
the cage like a gorilla, shouting and
sobbing at the same time. The car-
penter nailed the slats down firmly.

The men lifted the cage to their
shoulders and carried it to the rail.
They attached a heavy rope to the top
and tied the other end firmly to the
rail. With only the voice of the mate
to disturb the silence, the basket was
tossed over the side.

The rope went taut, held and the
basket bumped loudly against the side
of the Oriental, and it hung motionless
just above the waterline. Fisher felt
warm and cold at once. Perspiration
stood out on his face and the palms
of his hands. He clenched his fists
tightly, trying to remain calm and un-
disturbed at what had happened. They
were going to leave the poor devil
hanging there in the sun until he rotted
and died.

As much as he hated von Rundstad,
Fisher remembered that the mate could
have murdered Vanderdecken long ago,
yet had let him live. Fisher didn’t
know that the men feared Vander-
decken so much that they refused to
let him die. He could think only of

the man in the basket, swinging to
and fro in the wind until hunger and
heat drove him stark, raving mad.

He walked quickly toward the cap-
tain. Vanderdecken and Wedge were
talking quietly. The men were once
more back at their posts.

“Good lord, Captain,” Fisher blurted.
“You can’t — I mean, how can you do
this, even to an animal?”

Wedge looked at him queerly.

“Get hold of yourself, Bob,” he ad-
vised. “The captain has to maintain
discipline among the men. He can’t
chance another mutiny because he fails
to punish the leader of this one.”

Fisher was sick of the whole thing.
He had never expected Jim Wedge to
side against him at a time like this.
He turned to the captain.

“Then you intend to — to let him die
down there?”

Vanderdecken’s eyes were cold as
ice.

“There is one thing you must un-
derstand,” he said without visible emo-
tion. “The basket is cruel but mutiny
calls for harsh measures. When Von
Rundstad has enough, he can escape.
We supplied him with a knife.”

Wedge chuckled.

“If he needs rest, Bob, he can always
cut the rope.”

Something in Fisher’s brain snapped
like a tightly wound watch.

“You’re a damned fool,” he said
fiercely. “You’re turning into a heart-
less, miserable pirate like the rest of
them.”

He turned and went blindly across
the deck to the stairs.

CHAPTER X
The Dey's Bargain

O OBERT FISHER slept little during
the next ten days. Wedge moved
to one of the smaller cabins and left

164

. FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

him alone. Jim Wedge had tided to
be friendly, but after their quarrel,
Fisher preferred being left to himself.

Fisher roamed the deck by day and
most of the night. His eyes held a
fanatical gleam of hatred for everyone
around him. Twice he attempted to
cut the rope that held Von Rundstad’s
basket above the water. Both times he
was hurled back by Vanderdecken’s
men and left cursing on the deck. The
last time he had gone to his cabin, cry-
ing out for Vanderdecken to have
mercy on a dying man.

Hendrik von Rundstad was slowly
going mad. He shouted and pleaded
for his life until he was too hoarse to
speak above a whisper. Then he crept
around the swaying cage, his shaggy
head weaving from side to side, skinny
hands clutching the bars. The men
themselves, troubled by Fisher’s atti-
tude and watching the mate refuse to
die in his cage, tried to get Vander-
decken to change his mind. The
Dutchman remained unmoved by their
pleas. He and Wedge were spending
more and more time together, walking
the deck alone.

On the tenth day Fisher awakened
from his nightmare to hear the steady
bump-bump of the basket as it swayed
against the ship. He went to the deck,
thanking a merciful God that the day
was cloudy and the sea calm. Hurrying
to the rail, he stared down at Von
Rundstad. The mate lay motionless.
Perhaps he was still asleep. One claw-
like, bony hand protruded from the
open bars of the cage.

Fisher took a cautious look about.
He was alone on this section of the deck.
Drawing a pocket knife, he stole for-
ward to where the rope at the rail sup-
ported the cage below. With a quick
motion he slashed the rope and sent
the mate’s makeshift coffin plunging
into the sea. He left the rail and went

down to his cabin. As he slammed the
door behind him, the high thin voice
of the watch came from the crow’s nest:
“Tunis — dead ahead!”

Fisher sank face down on the bunk.
He heard footsteps on the deck and
Captain Vanderdecken giving orders.

“Give her a full head of canves.
We’ll make port by noon. All hands
into the shrouds.”

“Tunis or Hell,” Fisher thought bit-
terly. “Let the bloody murderers
sail where they want to. We’ll all die
when the time comes.”

The picture of Hendrix von Rund-
stad’s insane eyes had burned an un-
forgetable picture of horror into his
tired brain.

J IM WEDGE had no intention of
missing any part of new develop-
ments. He was at the wheel, staring
through the glass at the white, flat-
topped houses and the colorful galleys
along the far shore.

“A beautiful sight from a distance,”
a voice said from behind him.

Wedge nodded without looking away
from the city ahead of them. Captain
Vanderdecken waited until he turned
away from the view. The captain’s
face was grim.

“You see Gouletta from here,” he
said. “Tunis is inland. We reach it
by small boats through the canals.”
“We stop at Tunis?” Wedge asked.
“Tunis,” Vanderdecken said quietly,
“is our goal.”

Goal? Then, perhaps, they would
know what fate held in store for them.
The Oriental was already close in. A
Moorish galley swept past them toward
Gouletta. The high banks of oars
moved in swift precision. Blackmoors
were visible, scurrying along the deck
of the strange craft. Wedge turned
once more toward the glittering, walled
city ahead of them.

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST

165

“I must warn you that from now
on you must never interfere with my
actions,” the captain said. “Christian
ships are not welcome here. The Dey
is king of the cutthroats. He rules
Tunis with an iron hand and demands
a share' of booty from all who use this
port, English Free Rovers use Tunis
for refitting their ships and selling their
riches. In turn, the Dey demands
steady toll from them. If we were to
meet one of these galleys at sea, they
would not hesitate to sink us and kill
every man on board.”

Without looking around, Wedge
asked casually:

“Will it be possible for you to tell
us what is to become of Fisher and
myself? The kid’s pretty upset. It
wasn’t that he had any love for the
mate. He thinks we’re all against him
and it’s driving him half crazy.”
Vanderdecken nodded.

“I know,” he said. “I had hoped that
such things would affect him strongly.
I’m afraid he will have another shock
before the day is over.”

“Damn you, Vanderdecken,” Wedge
exclaimed good-naturedly. “Some-
times I get the feeling that you know
every act of this play we’re in. I wish
you’d take me into your confidence.”
The captain stared at Wedge’s tall
figure a little wistfully.

“You are a clever man,” he said. “I
think also, a tolerant one. Perhaps
through you, more than anyone else,
my voyage will end successfully.”
“You flatter me,” Jim Wedge said.
“I’d feel a damn sight better if I knew
what was coming next.”

The Oriental sailed quietly into the
blue waters of the bay. The sails were
furled and the anchor slipped into the
water to halt her slow progress. There
were several galleys anchored close to
them and an African slave-ship near one
of the docks. Black men and women

were chanting sadly as they trudged
slowly up the plank and into the hold
of the slaver.

A small bright barge swept away
from the shore and cut the water
toward the Oriental. Wedge could hear
the fat, turbaned official giving loud
orders from the bow. The barge came
alongside the Oriental and the black-
moors rested on their oars. Two of
them lifted a long, tightly bound bundle
between them and climbed over the rail.
The bandy-legged official followed,
grunting as he reached the rail and
jumped wearily to the deck. Vander-
decken met him.

The official offered a pudgy brown
hand and the Dutchman ignored it
coolly. The blackmoors dropped the
bundle at the captain’s feet and stood
like two grinning black apes with their
ham-like paws on long, curved blades.

Near the docks the steady throbbing
of drums started and unfamiliar instru-
ments screamed wild, discordant music
that swelled above the war drums.

“We have come on the mission that
the Red Widow could not perform,”
Vanderdecken said quickly. “The
great captain of the Red Widow asks
you to accept our riches and send
the hostages aboard at once.”

JT WAS obvious to Wedge that the
war music and the grinning com-
placency of the official were troubling
the Dutch captain. The faces of the
blackmoors were equally unpleasant.
The turbaned Moor allowed an ugly
grin to pass over his face.

“We could not bring all the hostages
with us,” he said. “You were to ar-
rive here on the thirtieth day of the
third month. You are late. The
Dey would not wait for you.”

He pointed a dirty finger at the
bundle on the deck. Vanderdecken’s
lips trembled strangely.

166

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“You — you have not . .

The Moor leaned over and ripped a
portion of the bundle open with his
dagger. Wedge leaned forward and
his face turned an ugly gray. Vander-
decken’s breath sucked in loudly.

The face of a dead man stared up at
them from the partly opened bundle.
Vanderdecken sank to his knees,
drawing the shroud down to expose
more of the body. The Moor backed
away and the blackmoors drew their
weapons.

“The Dey bargains only once,” the
Moor said harshly. “You did not keep
your promise.”

He scrambled over the rail quickly.
The drums were pounding loudly along
the shore. Two galleys started to close
in on the Oriental. Vanderdecken
sprang to his feet.

“Up anchor!” he shouted. “Clap
on all the canvas we have. Move, you
dogs, or we’ll all rot in Tunis!”

The anchor rattled out of the water.
Men sprang into the shrouds. Wedge,
standing above the body on the deck,
knew nothing of what went on. He
was aware of Bob Fisher, as the New
Yorker’s shadow fell across the body
of the dead man.

The corpse, stiff and blood-soaked,
was a duplicate of that of Robert
Fisher.

It could have been his twin. A knife
had slashed the neck from ear to ear.

Fisher, as he stared down at the
corpse, straightened like a marble
statue and the blood drained from his
face.

CHAPTER XI
Knife for Your Gullet

J IM WEDGE covered the body
quickly, but he was too late. Fisher
dropped to his knees, drew the shroud

away again and stared into the wide,
lifeless eyes. His breath came audibly
and his eyes as they turned upward to
Wedge’s were wild and blood-red. He
held a finger to his own neck, tracing
the path of the knife.

“My God, Jim,” he whimpered piti-
fully. “It’s me!”

He stood up. His hands were clenched
tightly as he stared at the lifeless
figure.

“You’d better go below,” Wedge said.
His voice was harsh. “There’s noth-
ing you can do here. Whoever the man
is, he can do you no harm.”

Fisher took a threatening step
toward him.

“Damn you, Wedge!” he shouted.
“For a month you’ve been ordering me
around. Now I see myself lying there
with a knife slash in my throat and it
doesn’t worry you at all.”

His voice rose to a shrill scream.

“You can’t hide from me any longer,
Wedge. You’re a pirate like the rest
of them. I’ll kill . . .”

Wedge clutched his shoulder and
pushed him toward the hatch.

“Shut up, Bob,” he said coldly. “You
don’t know what you’re saying.”

Fisher wrenched loose.

“I’ll go,” he said, almost whispering.
“But look out for me, Wedge. I’m
going to get all of you before I’m
through.”

Wedge looked tired.

“Go to bed, Bob,” he said. “If I
could have chosen a companion for
this voyage, I wouldn’t have taken a
sniveling fool.”

He stood alone, watching Fisher
go below deck. Then, without emo-
tion, he picked up the corpse and tossed
it over the side.

“Perhaps,” he thought, “things af-
fect me differently than they do
Fisher. The boy’s all right but he can’t
stand this life. There must be a solu-

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST

167

tion to all this, but with a crazy man
on my hands, it’s going to be harder
than ever to find it.”

T HE Oriental slipped from the
Bay of Tunis with the help of a
strong wind. The Dey’s galleys were in
hot pursuit but once on the broad waters
of the inland sea, they were no match
for the swift little Dutch galiot. Then
came the long, restless repetition of
the first voyage ail over again. The
decks were badly weathered, sails
needed repair and the masts needed
refitting. Barnacles were clinging to
the hull from the long stay at sea.

Jim Wedge found himself more and
more alone. Fisher was beyond reason
now. West of La Coruna, Spain, one
of Philip’s galleys challenged them to
battle and managed to send a shot over
the Oriental’s bow. Vanderdecken was
no longer wasting time. The Oriental
kicked up her heels and made a run
for it, leaving the Dons to curse in her
wake.

Vanderdecken spent long hours on
the quarter deck, searching the horizon
with his glass. Wedge, waiting for the
next phase that he was sure would come,
wandered for hours about the deck re-
membering the pleasant life of New
Orleans and wished more and more that
he had never quarreled with Dave
Laird. From Vanderdecken he learned
that the Dey had murdered sixty men,
women and children — all English— be-
cause the Oriental had not arrived on
the proper date. This was all the in-
formation the Dutch captain would
offer and it left Wedge in the dark
as much as before. Who the corpse
had been, he could not guess; but the
strange resemblance between it and
Bob Fisher drove him almost mad.

Wedge kept his own calendar carved
on the wall of his cabin. He figured
roughly that a month and eight days

had passed since that foggy night in
New Orleans. On the eighth day out of
Tunis, while working with his calen-
dar, he was suddenly startled by the
stealthy scrape of boots inside the
cabin door.

Fie looked up quickly, to find Fisher
moving toward him like a stealthy cat,
cutlass held point forward in his hand.
Fisher’s face was white as a sheet and
a wild light of hatred shown from his
narrowed eyes. Wedge realized that his
own weapon was on the far side of the
room. Fisher came toward him slowly,
cutlass raised.

“Bob — wait!” Wedge cried. Fie
tried to jump aside but the cutlass came
down in a wicked arc, hitting him on the
shoulder. He felt it rip his flesh like
white-hot metal. Bright sparks flashed
in his brain and he plunged forward into
darkness.

^J^/HEN Wedge regained conscious-

T ness he was alone in the cabin. His
shoulder ached badly. Placing a hand
on it, he realized it had been bandaged.
He stared at the ceiling, trying to col-
lect his thoughts. The kid must have
gone raving crazy to attack him like
that. Wedge wondered why he wasn’t
dead.

He heard footsteps outside, saw Van-
derdecken come in and closed his eyes
tightly as the captain came toward
him.

“Are you awake?” he asked quietly.

Wedge nodded. He didn’t feel like
talking.

“Fisher is in chains below,” Vander-
decken said. “I had been watching him
closely. I’m sorry I did not arrive
in time to save you the wound.”

Wedge sat up, painfully leaning on
his good arm.

“Thgpks,” he said. “I guess the kid
saw too much in Tunis. It’s sent him
out of his head.”

168

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

Vanderdecken seemed to want to
open a conversation, and didn’t know
just how to go about it.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered at last,
“that I caused hatred between you and
your friend.”

Wedge’s lips tightened.

“Forget it,” he advised. “I guess
you know what you’re doing. I don’t
hate Fisher. What he saw at Tunis
was enough to unnerve any man.”
Vanderdecken smiled slightly.

“I wish I could tell you what is in
my mind.” He turned to the rough
marks Wedge had been carving on the
wall. “I see you have marked the
tenth day of the fourth month on your
calendar.”

“It helps pass the time,” Wedge said.
“I’d be damned grateful for another
chance at my own way of living. I’m
not cut out for this pirate stuff.”

“I think,” Vanderdecken went on,
“that on the eleventh day of this month,
many things will be explained. I hope
you will stand by your friend, although
I think it wise that he remain in chains
long enough for him to realize what he
has done.”

Wedge stared upward toward the
small porthole. Another riddle.

“I hope that I don’t have to stand a
test as gruesome as Fisher’s,” he said.
“I might be little less than a madman
myself.”

Vanderdecken shuddered.

“Fisher meant to slash your gullet as
he saw that other poor devil slashed.
I thank God that I was able to prevent
it. All my work will have been in vain
if either of you dies.”

CHAPTER XII

Revenge of the Red Widow

r jpHE cry from the mast was high-
pitched and exultant.

“Sail ho! To starboard! She looks
like the Red Widow.”

A thrill of excitement flashed
through Wedge’s body. The Red
Widow? He had heard the name be-
fore, from Vanderdecken’s lips. There
was something about it that was chal-
lenging. It brought him from his bunk
quickly and, with his arm in a sling, he
hurried to the dock. The morning
was fairly calm but a west wind chopped
white caps on the surface of the sea
and sent the Oriental heeling far over
on her course northward.

Vanderdecken and his crew were all
on deck, watching the ship that sailed
toward them. Far to the north and
slightly out of line with them, a high-
masted vessel bore down upon the
galiot. As she grew out of the sea,
Wedge saw the brightly colored sails
and the shining woodwork that flashed
in the sun. Her lines were smooth and
built for speed, and a line of cannon
pushed ugly muzzles from her sides.

Wedge watched the Dutch captain
for some sign of what would happen.
He was aware that Fisher had been
released and was coming along the deck
toward him. Fisher’s face was dirty
and tired. His hair had grown long,
merging into a dirty, black beard. Sul-
lenly he ignored Wedge and went to
the rail.

Vanderdecken issued orders swiftly
and the Oriental came about, the crew
furling her sails. Then followed a half
hour of waiting as the Red Widow
came in close, furled her own sails and
launched a long-boat.

Wedge saw several seamen climb
down her side and a tall, handsomely
dressed man swung over the rail and
followed. He couldn’t take his eyes
from the man as the boat cut the waves
between the two vessels.

The long-boat came abreast of the
Oriental and the slim, sinewy figure of

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST

169

the Red Widow’s captain swung aboard.
He ignored Vanderdecken’s offer of as-
sistance and jumped lightly to the
deck.

Wedge stood transfixed, staring with
puzzled eyes at the newcomer. Before
him, dressed in the gaudy, expensive
trappings of an English Sea Rover, was
the perfect image of himself.

Fisher saw the resemblance also. He
turned toward Wedge, a question in his
eyes. Then he walked toward him
quickly.

“It’s you, Jim!”

Wedge couldn’t speak. His lips and
tongue were dry. Perspiration stood
out on his forehead.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

Fisher stood his ground.

“Perhaps you know now how I felt
in Tunis,” he said in a hushed
voice.

Wedge’s eyes were on the man who
faced Vanderdecken.

It was Captain John Wedge of the
ship Red Widow who spoke.

“Captain Hans Vanderdecken. It
seems you couldn’t escape us, for all
your blundering about the sea.”

Vanderdecken’s face expressed only
sorrow.

“But Captain Wedge,” he protested.
“I’ve been searching for you these
many weeks. I had no wish to escape
the Red Widow.”

Captain Wedge, Jim Wedge thought.
Vanderdecken was addressing the
stranger by his name. His scalp
prickled strangely. The tall sea cap-
tain strode up and down the deck as
though trying to control his temper.
He returned to Vanderdecken.

“Captain, you were once an honest
man. I trusted you on a mission that
meant life to sixty of my closest friends.
You carried a fortune so vast that it
turned your head. You failed that mis-
sion and now I’m going to punish you as

I would singe the mangy beard of a
Spanish Don.”

“First you will hear my story?” Van-
derdecken’s voice was hardly more than
a whisper.

Captain John Wedge drew a scroll
of parchment from his pocket and
thrust it toward the captain of the
Oriental.

“This message came overland from
Tunis,” he said sternly. “Johnathan
Fisher’s son escaped the Dey. Read it
and profit by the knowledge of what you
have done.”

Vanderdecken took the scroll, un-
rolled it and read hurriedly. He looked
up at last to meet the full fury of
John Wedge’s eyes.

“This is a great injustice,” he pro-
tested in a broken voice. “We ar-
rived outside Tunis only a day late.
There was no point in leaving the
silver, with the terrible deed already
done. I tried to return hastily and
report my failure to you.”

John Wedge waved his arm, dismiss-
ing Vanderdecken’s words in a fit of
temper. Their conversation was in
low, tense tones that the two Americans
could not understand. Jim Wedge’s
mind was in a turmoil. He sought some
explanation, but none presented itself.

“Enough,” Captain Wedge of the
Red Widow said at last. “You find no
forgiveness in my heart. You say the
silver is still in your hold?”

'Y^/’EDGE turned and went hurriedly

7 toward Vanderdecken’s cabin. He
could stand no more. Fisher followed
him. Wedge slumped down on the cap-
tain’s bunk, his head in his hands.
Fisher put his hand on Wedge’s shoul-
der.

“I’m sorry about what happened,
Jim,” he said brokenly. “Now you
know how I felt. It didn’t make sense
and I guess the shock was too much.

170

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

I see now that I was a fool to quarrel
with you.”

Wedge looked at him silently for a
minute then held out his hand.

“It’s okay, Bob,” he said. “Tell
me when that — that ghost leaves, will
you?”

Fisher went to the window and
looked out. The Oriental was rocking
gently on the waves. The tall-masted
ship was still there, a bare five hundred
yards away.

“I think they’re going to tie up to us,”
Fisher said. “Maybe they’re after that
silver.”

Wedge looked up.

“None of it makes sense to you
yet?” he asked.

“None of it,” Fisher agreed.

“Then be sure of this much,” Wedge
said. “We weren’t looking at our-
selves. The dead man in Tunis and the
one out there on deck are both from
somewhere in our past. Vanderdecken
brought us back to see them for a rea-
son only he can guess. I only know
that through someone’s intolerance and
bull-headedness, a lot of trouble oc-
curred that could have been avoided.
The Dutchman wanted us to see that.”

The ship lurched suddenly and the
sound of wood grating against wood
came from the side of the vessel.

“They’re grappling the two ships to-
gether,” Fisher said from his post by
the window. “I think I guessed right
about the silver.”

They remained quietly in the cabin
throughout the afternoon. Neither
Vanderdecken nor Wedge came on deck
again. Men worked hurriedly, carrying
the silver bars from the Oriental to the
deck of the Red Widow. It was close
to sunset when Fisher, dozing from the
heat of the cabin, started upright. Cap-
tain John Wedge’s voice roared from
the silence of the Red Widow’s deck.

“Order your crew to cast off. Put on

a full head of canvas and stand away.”

Jim Wedge didn’t rise from the bunk.

“She’s pulling away,” Fisher said ex-
citedly. “Vanderdecken acts as though
he’s all worn out. The crew’s into the
shrouds.”

The captain came across the deck
and opened the door to the cabin. His
face was stony gray and his voice
cracked with emotion.

“Prepare to abandon this ship,” he
told them.

Wedge rose quickly.

“You mean that damned pirate is
going to send us to the bottom?”

Vanderdecken nodded.

“He has refused to believe that my
story of our attempt to reach Tunis
was the truth. You saw the trouble we
had with the mate. You know that the
Donna Marie and the mutiny kept us
from reaching our goal in time. Cap-
tain John Wedge will have none of it.
He will punish us for our failure to
arrive at Tunis in time to ransom those
prisoners.”

Wedge’s face was red with anger.

“We’ll fight back. We’ll blow his
ship out of the water as we did the
Donna Marie.”

Vanderdecken shook his head.

“You are again attempting to quar-
rel with Fate.” The captain turned
toward the door. “We cannot hope to
win against the Red Widow. I cannot
match the Oriental against a crack
Sea Rover who has command of three
hundred men and a vessel bristling
with cannon.”

B-a-r-o-o-m-!

'y'HE sound of a cannon roared from
the direction of the Red Widow.
It must have made a direct hit. Wedge
felt the ship heel over and turn about
swiftly. They ran to the deck. Sea-
men were rushing toward the bow.
The fore-mast shuddered under the

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST

171

blow and crumpled downward into the
water. Jim Wedge rushed to the rail,
shaking his fist toward the Red Widow
like a wild man.

“You stinking, bloody pirates!”
His voice was a cry of hate. “I’d like
to . . .”

B-a-r-o-o-m-!

“Get down, man,” Vanderdecken
shouted. “It’s a broadside.”

He fell face down on the deck.
Wedge stood erect as the side of the
Red Widow belched black smoke. The
Oriental shook from stern to bow and
plunged downward into the water. The
main-mast crocked like thunder, broke
half way up and pitched to the deck.
Billowing clouds of canvas fell over
the crew and below deck flames started
to crackle and roar near the powder
room.

“The boat!” Fisher cried. “We’ve
got to get out of here.”

He started after Vanderdecken, saw
that Wedge was still at the rail swear-
ing at the Red Widow, and went back
to him. He took his arm firmly and
sought to draw him away from the
rail.

“It’s no use, Jim,” he said. “We’ll
sink in a few minutes. Better make
the best of it.”

Wedge allowed himself to be led
toward the boat. Vanderdecken, al-
ready at the oars, was waiting for them
as they went over the side. It was
almost dark. Wedge sank into the bot-
tom of the boat, his eyes glazed with
anger.

He could remember only that night
in New Orleans when he had sworn at
Dave Laird and accused him of being
a thief. Men did foolish, terrible
things when they were angry.

The Red Widow had stopped firing.
The Oriental dipped nose first into the
sea and sank quickly. Fisher, once
more in control of his senses, stared

at the pitiful figure of the Dutchman.

“The Red Widow has had her re-
venge, Captain,” he said slowly. “Why
we were brought here, I don’t know,
but if our hatred for the Red Widow’s
captain makes you feel any better, I
think we all three have something in
common.”

CHAPTER XIII
Ship of Evil Tidings

T HE Dutch captain stopped rowing.

It was quite dark now, and fog set-
tled down, blotting out everything near
them. His eyes were kindly as he
watched the two men before him. He
sat thus for a long time, as though
collecting his exhausted wits.

“Many things I am sure you already
know,” he said. “I will tell the rest
as quickly as possible. In 1648, Cap-
tain John Wedge of the Red Widow had
his ship and himself tightly sewn up
in a small English harbor. His
Majesty’s ship, Sovereign of the Seas,
had Wedge where he could move not
an inch from his anchorage without
being blown from the water. John
Wedge had a garrison of men with their
wives and children living under the
Dey’s protection in Tunis. This garri-
son was controlled by John Wedge’s
business manager, Johnathan Fisher.”
“Fisher?” Bob Fisher interrupted.
“The dead man we saw in Tunis? The
one with the slit throat?”

Vanderdecken nodded and went on
hurriedly.

“Johnathan Fisher held control of
headquarters for Wedge in Tunis.
Wedge was a Free Rover, plundering
Spanish ships and selling his riches to
the Dey. At last their money dwindled
and there was no protection money
left to be paid to the Dey. A message
went to Wedge across the Mediter-

172

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

ranean, and by dispatch overland, de-
manding silver before the last day of
the third month.”

The captain paused, moistening his
lips.

“Wedge got the silver right enough
but could not get away to deliver it
himself. I had the Oriental in the
same harbor for repairs. Dutch ships
were free to come and go as they
pleased. John Wedge offered me much
gold and protection for as long as I
sailed, if in turn I would smuggle the
silver beneath the noses of the King’s
ship and deliver it in time to save his
garrison from being wiped out.

“You know the rest of the story. We
fought every ill-fortune man has ever
faced. We arrived one day after every
man, woman and child was murdered,
and Johnathan Fisher’s body was de-
livered to us on deck of the Oriental.”

“And Johnathan Fisher,” Fisher said
slowly, “was some early ancestor of
mine.”

Vanderdecken smiled.

“In the Seventeenth century, Johna-
than Fisher’s son escaped from Tunis
and lived to become your ancestor.”

“I suppose I’m descended from that
dirty pirate we just escaped from,” Jim
Wedge said abruptly.

“Such is the case,” Vanderdecken
said. “In you, however, I have found
understanding, while in your ancestor I
found only hate.”

“But what about you?” Bob Fisher
asked eagerly. “Surely you’re no
ghost from the past.”

“I’ve taken you back to the year of
1648,” the Dutchman said. “Johnathan
Fisher, in the letter he sent by his son,
cursed the vessel and the man who
failed to deliver the silver in time to
save his life. Wedge could have lifted
that curse but he chose to be stubborn,
punish us for a thing we could not pre-
vent. I and my ship were to sail the

seven seas until the end of time. I had
but one chance for salvation. The
Oriental sailed on and on through the
years always living and reliving that
first terrible voyage. Men grew to hate
the sight of our ship and it was con-
sidered ill-luck to look upon us as we
passed at sea. The fog and the storms
battered the hulk of our vessel until we
grew to represent bad weather and all
things that men of the sea hate bitterly.
If I could find the men who had in them
the same blood as my accusers, and
make them understand that my trial
had not been fair, I could escape the
curse that was on my shoulders. I
searched until I found the only men
alive who had the same blood as Johna-
than Fisher and Captain John Wedge
in their veins. You were those men.”

SIGH escaped Jim Wedge’s lips.

“It’s all so damned wild and un-
believable, and yet I can understand
something of what you felt. If I can in
any way speak for my ancestor, John
Wedge, I’ll say that he was a fool if
one ever lived.”

“Perhaps,” Vanderdecken said, “the
events of these weeks have furnished
a valuable lesson to both of you.”
Wedge looked at Fisher-.

“I guess he’s right,” he said. “I’d
have some apologies to make if I could
reach New Orleans.”

Fisher’s thoughts went back swiftly
to a girl who had faced him with pain
in her eyes that day on the Jersey
Ferry. He nodded in agreement.

The fog was hugging the water and
Vanderdecken was hardly visible in
the far end of the boat. He looked sud-
denly older and more at peace with the
world than they had ever noticed before.

“You have lifted the curse that bur-
dened my heart,” he said in a faint
voice. “Give this message to men who
sail the seas. The Oriental will no

APPOINTMENT WITH THE PAST

173

longer appear from the fog before a
storm to strike terror to their hearts.”
Fisher opened his mouth as though
to speak but Wedge stopped him by
questioning the Dutchman hurriedly.

“But, sir, I’ve never heard of the
Oriental before we came aboard her.
Surely she hasn’t been the terrible ship
you seem to think.”

Vanderdecken’s voice, barely a whis-
per, wafted to them from the black-
ness of the night.

“She is known to men oj the sea as the
ghost ship Flying Dutchman ! ”

Fisher’s eyes widened. He stared
at Wedge and together they turned
toward the end of the boat.

“The Flying Dutchman?” Wedge’s
voice held startled horror. “Good Lord,
then we’ve been ...”

He stopped short. The boat no
longer held Hans Vanderdecken. He
had faded into the night, a ghost of the
past, for the first time finding peace
in a watery grave.

Before their eyes the boat turned
rotten and mouldy. The oars fell to
pieces as they watched. The wood was
dry, crumbling away like tinder.

“Quick!” Wedge shouted hoarsely.
“She’s going down!”

The boat dissolved before they could
jump from it and both men were left
struggling in the water.

“I — can’t — swim,” Wedge gasped,
and started to sink. Fisher flailed the
water and managed to grasp Wedge
about the neck. He treaded water des-
perately, hoping for rescue that must
be out of question.

He thought he heard a shrill horn
sounding in the fog. A light focused
upon them and Fisher felt a solid, tire-
shaped life-preserver strike his shoulder
and bounce off. He grasped it tightly
with his free arm.

“Hold on, there,” a loud voice called.
“We’ll be alongside in a jiffy.”

Fisher felt he must be going daft.
He imagined he heard the throbbing,
powerful motors of a launch coming
toward them. He saw the low hull of
the boat as it idled alongside. Then
arms were about his waist, drawing him
from the water. Immense relief filled
his heart and he fainted.

CHAPTER XIV
Return to Reality

T)OB FISHER sat up weakly, looking
across the tiny cabin of the Coast
Guard cutter at the thick -set, grinning
captain. Wedge was already awake,
and smiling at him from the folds of
an overcoat twice his girth.

“Glad you came around,” the cap-
tain said in a cheerful voice. “We
figure you’ve both been adrift for some
time. The cook is bringing in some
soup.”

Fisher nodded and stared at Wedge.
What explanation could they make?
How could they, even to themselves,
justify all this? The cook came in
with steaming bowls of soup and fresh
white bread. Wedge ate eagerly, while
he stared at the details of the cabin as
though eager to make sure everything
was real.

“I’m puzzled about what happened
to your raft,” the captain said suddenly.
“Of course there was a heavy fog when
we heard you calling for help. Still, I
thought we would have no trouble in
picking it up.”

Wedge said quietly, “I suppose this
is regular routine work for you?”

The other chuckled.

“Twenty miles off Sandy Hook with
a war going on. There are plenty of
customers for us these days.”

Fisher stared at a small calendar
tacked on the far wall. The top leaf
showed the month of April, 1943.

174

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“What is the exact date, anyway?”
he asked.

Wedge shot him a warning glance,
but the captain looked concerned.

“Say,” he said, “I’d forgotten you
chaps may have been drifting alone out
there for God knows how long. This
is the twelfth of April. How long since
your ship went down?”

Fisher, without thinking, began:
“April of the year sixteen — ”

Wedge broke in hurriedly.

“Quite a while, Captain,” he said.
There was a quizzical gleam in his eye.
“I can’t remember the exact date, but
I’ll hazard a guess that we’ve set some
kind of a record for being adrift in an
open boat.”

THE MUSKETEERS IN PARIS

(Concluded from page 119)

to one side as Phillip gunned the car
and roared through the open gate and
onto the dark road.

“Turn left,” Marie said suddenly.
“We cannot go back to Paris. The
route to Switzerland is to the left. In
Switzerland we will all be safe. I have
connections along the route that will
assure us a safe trip.”

Phillip swung the car to the left and
drove swiftly down the dark road, away
from Paris.

They drove in silence for several min-
utes, but there was an uneasy tension
in the car that was almost physically
tangible.

D’Artagnan said suddenly, “Stop the
car, little Phillip.”

“Why?” Marie cried.

Phillip brought the car to a quiet
stop. The night was black and by the
faint light of the stars they could make
out the rugged landscape of the French
countryside.

D’Artagnan stepped from the car.

“There is work to be done in France,”
he said quietly. “I cannot leave. The
rest of you take the good scientists on to
Switzerland. I will remain here.”

Porthos, Aramis and Athos clam-

bered from the car.

“A shabby trick, D’Artagnan,” Por-
thos grumbled. “You would have the
fun of sticking Nazis and leave us to
twiddle our thumbs with women and
children.”

Phillip had slipped quietly from the
car and was standing beside the muske-
teers on the dark road.

“I will stay with you,” he said simply-

Marie looked at them for an instant,
and her eyes were wet as they met
D’Artagnan’s, but she said nothing.

“Your minds are made up,” she said
softly. “May God bless you all and
may we meet again.”

She touched D’Artagnan lightly on
the cheek with her hand and then
slipped to the driver’s seat.

u Au revoir, my friends,” she mur-
mured.

The musketeers bowed slightly, and
Phillip had to blink his eyes rapidly to
keep back the tears.

The car moved away and the four
men watched until its red tail-light dis-
appeared in the blackness of the night.
Then they turned and started walking
back along the road to Paris, arm-in-
arm, smiling into the darkness.

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Sulphur, which is a large yellow crystal having a specific gravity of 2.06, a melting
point of 113° and a boiling point of 445°; Monoclinic Sulphur, occurring in long,
thin crystals having a specific gravity of 1.96 and a melting point of 1 19°. Plastic
sulphur, a viscous, elastic, transparent mass, is formed by pouring melted sulphur
into water. This is its commercial form. (NEXT ISSUE: The Romance of Lithum)

177

LEFTY

ARABIAN

NIGHTMARE

Ali Ben Aiikaf had eight snakes
and a mission in life. Since he was
not able to handle both at the same
time/ Lefty Feep got the reptiles!

ROBERT

BLOCH

FEEP’S

EOW!” yelled Lefty Feep.
“Take it away!”

I stared up at the tall, thin
racketeer raconteur as he stood trem-
bling before my table in Jack’s Shack.

“Grab loose,” pleaded Feep. “Re-
move it out of here.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Why
are you so upset when you see me eat-
ing spaghetti?”

“Spaghetti?” Feep breathed a sigh
of relief. “I am nearly beating it when
I see you eating it.”

“Why should spaghetti affect you?”
I asked, as Feep sat down at the table
beside me. “Doesn’t it agree with you?”

“It is not a question of my digestion,”
said Lefty Feep. “I take one look at
the spaghetti and I think I am seeing
snakes.”

“Snakes?”

“Snakes give me the shakes,” Feep
muttered. “I am not in hep style over
a reptile.”

“Don’t like snakes, eh?”

“A boa constrictor is not a pretty
picture, and I am not much fonder of
an anaconda.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand
this, Lefty. Have you been drinking and
seeing snakes — is that it?”

Feep nodded slowly.

1 make with the snakes and the frails begin to quail

180

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“When I’m drinking, from snakes
I’m shrinking,” he admitted.

I smiled. “Then if I were you, I’d
stop drinking. If you stop drinking you
won’t see any more snakes.”

Feep frowned. “But I do stop and
I still see snakes,” he told me. “I see
serpents in the present tense.”

A peculiar gleam came into Lefty
Feep’s eyes. I recognized it only too
well. Lefty Feep had another story.
When Feep gets a gleam in his eyes,
I generally get a pain in my ears. This
time I decided to make my escape in
a hurry. I rose from the table.

“I must be going,” I remarked.

“Exactly,” said Mr. Feep, pushing
me back in my chair. “You are going
to hear my story.”

“But—”

“I must tell you this,” said Feep. “I
have a snake tale.”

“Sorry,” I murmured. “I am not in-
terested in your peculiar anatomy.”

“Allow me to twist this tale for you,”
said Lefty Feep. He held me very firm-
ly in place.

I sighed. There was nothing else to
do but sit there while Feep began to
wail his tale.

“It all starts,” said Lefty Feep —

T ALL starts the other day.

I am feeling down in the dumps
the other day, which is not surprising,
because I am down in a dump — a place
called the Oasis.

The Oasis is a little tavern located
in a desert of clip joints. It has a sort
of oriental atmosphere — because it is
never aired out.

Part of the desert charm lies in the
fact that it is usually deserted. Then,
of course, there is the sand and the
palms.

The sand is in the cuspidors, and the
palms belong to the waiters, who are
always holding them out for a tip.

The owner of the Oasis is an oriental
character generally known as the Sneak
of Araby.

I do not know why I mention all
this, because I am not particularly in-
terested in the atmosphere of this joint.
I am in here trying to drown my sor-
rows — only from the rate at which I
inhale, I am more likely to drown my-
self. The more I spin the bottle, the
soberer I get.

Do not get the wrong impression. I
am not a drinking man. I seldom drink
any more — any more than I can get.
But there is a reason.

To speak rankly and frankly, I am
in love with a dove — but she flies too
high for me. The ginch in question is
a burlesque cutie; a beauty but very
snooty. Her name is Fanny, and for a
while she and I are closer than Siamese
twins.

But a few days ago she comes and
tells me that she is going to abandon
her art and try for a job in a classical
ballet. She is getting persnickety about
terpsichore, and sure enough, she lands
a spot in the rehearsals of a ballet
troupe.

Right away she starts putting on the
dog about going from Minsky to Ni-
jinsky in one easy lesson, and I can
see that she is giving me the colder
shoulder.

I question her and find out she has
a new flame— none other than the per-
sonality who is backing the ballet. He
is Herman Sherman, an overgrown
hunk of vermin.

I do not like Herman Sherman, or
classical dancing, or her attitude. But
instead of punching Herman Sherman
in the nose and spoiling Fanny’s
chances, I walk out of her life like a
gentleman. I am really gone on the
damsel, and so I bow out gracefully and
head for this Oasis tavern like I say.
And there I stand all alone at the bar

LEFTY FEEP'S ARABIAN NIGHTMARE

181

in the afternoon, trying to drown my
sorrows.

I am just going down for the third
time when I happen to notice this whis-
ker standing next to me at the bar.

He comes in very quietly, because
I do not hear him approach at all. The
first thing that attracts my attention is
when I reach for a glass and get a hand-
ful of beard instead.

I put the beard back on the bar, not
being a beard-drinker, and stare at the
face attached to it. It is a dark brown
face, hiding in back of a big nose. It is
not exactly the kind of a face you find
on bar-room floors, so I examine the
owner more carefully.

He is dressed in a long white night
gown and has a towel wrapped around
his head. Unless he is a fugitive from a
Turkish bath, I cannot place him.

Then I notice he carries a big, long
wicker basket. And I think I figure
things out.

He must be the Oasis version of a
cigarette girl. I know there is a short-
age of help these days — they can’t get
cigarette girls because they are all
working as welders.

r j^HE whisker smiles at me, but I pay
no attention you can mention to this
clown in the nightgown, because I am
too busy drinking. In fact, I am get-
ting wobbly. Almost at the stage where
I expect to see snakes.

I do.

Suddenly, on the bar in front of me,
I see the snakes gliding along. They
are lean, mean, and green.

I mutter and utter a swell yell, then
cover my face with my hands. I do not
like to see snakes. I wish that they
would go away.

But they don’t.

When I look again, the snakes are
still there.

I cover my eyes once more and brace

myself. It can’t be true. I sneak another
peek, very meek and weak. And then
I shriek.

Because the snakes are more than
just wriggling on the bar, now. They
are coiled up. Coiled up in front of me.
Coiled up, five of them in a line. They
twist and turn and then lie still. And
I see they are coiled up in a word.

Yes, those snakes are lying on the
bar, each with its body twisted to spell
out a letter. All together, they spell out
the word— “S O U S E.”

I can’t understand it.

And I can’t stand it!

Five snakes, spelling out the word,
“SOUS E,” in front of me on the
bar!

One flash and I am ready to dash.
I get myself braced to run out of the
joint.

At this moment the guy in the night
gown suddenly notices the snakes. He
just blinks and winks. Then he bends
down and whispers to them.

Yes, he whispers through his whis-
kers at the snakes!

“My little green friends,” he croons,
“It is very naughty of you to escape
once more.”

Naughty is no word for it — revolting
is my idea. But the whisker is not re-
volted. He grins at the serpents and
then he reaches into his nightie and
pulls out a little two-by-four tuba and
begins to blow it.

He begins to blow this tuba, and it
is lucky for him that there is nobody
in the joint and the bartender is sweep-
ing the floor, because he really sets up
a squeaking that is reeking.

The tune he plays is certainly an
eerie earful, but it is evidently number
one on the snakes’ Hit Parade, because
they suddenly uncoil and wriggle back
into the wire basket from which they
emerge. The snake that makes the “E”
in “SOUSE” almost fractures its pelvis

182

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

trying to uncoil again.

I almost fracture my neck staring at
this far from delectable spectacle.

The whisker notices my noticing, and
when he finally puts the lid back on the
basket, he blinks his lids at me with a
smile. At least I think there is the
sunshine of a smile lurking under the
silver lining of his beard.

“Ten thousand apologies, my hon-
ored and esteemed sir,” he says, in a
high voice. “I am humbly sorry if my
little friends in any way disturb you.
You like my little friends?”

“They are no friends of mine,” I tell
him. “I do not care to have any friends
that crawl around on their bellies and
make fun of honest drunks.”

“Allah willing, it shall not happen
again, I assure you,” says the whitey
iii the nightie.

''JpHEN curiosity gets the better of
me. “Am I nuts,” I inquire, “or do
I see these snakes spell out a word?”

“Your sanity is sublime and beyond
question,” the dark man assures me.
“The serpents do indeed spell out a
word.”

And he goes ahead talking, introduc-
ing himself to me. He is Ali Ben Alikat,
an ornamental oriental from Iraq and
Mesopotamia. An Arab, in other words.
He claims that back in the East he is
a sort of priest — only in his country
the term is “dervish”. He is one of these
whirling dervishes, and according to
him, he certainly gets around, until Axis
gunfire disturbs his sleep one Arabian
night.

I ask him why the Axis should bother
him, and he bows and tells me.

“It is because of the treasure, of
course,” he whispers, waggling his beard
and looking around to see if we are
still alone.

“What treasure?”

“The sceptre,” he mutters, from un-

der his beard. “The sceptre of the great
Caliph, Haroun A1 Raschid.”

“Come again?” I invite him.
“Haroun A1 Raschid, Caliph of Bag-
dad,” he tells me. “It is a sacred relic,
hidden and guarded by dervishes
throughout the centuries. If the Axis
could but lay hands on it, they would
boast of this possession. Legend has it
that he who owns the sceptre is a con-
queror none can stand before. And my
simple countrymen, learning that the
Axis has the sceptre, would bow before
German agents and give in. As a der-
vish, it is my sacred duty to guard that
sceptre with my worthless life.”

He goes on to mention that he flees
to this country with the sceptre and
also takes the snakes. The sacred
snakes.

“Sacred snakes?” I inquire.

“Ah, but yes, effendi,” he answers.
“Feep is the name,” I come back.
“But what is this about sacred snakes?”
“Hatched under the Kaaba stone,”
he whispers. “In the holy of holies.
Raised in the mosques by the followers
of the Prophet. Full of the wisdom of
the serpent.

“Direct descendants of the serpent
in the Garden of Eden.”

“What good are they?”

“Ah, effendi, they constitute what
you in the west would call oracles. They
can be used in soothsaying. When I play
to them the music of the dervishes, they
will give warnings and foretell the
future by spelling out words,” explains
this Bagdaddy.

“Wait a minute, now,” I object.
“That I cannot swallow. I hear a lot
about snake-charmers, I admit, but I
still think I have hallucinations when
I see them spell out a word.”

“Behold, then,” drones Ali Ben Ali-
kat. “By the beard of the Prophet, ob-
serve.”

And he whips the cover off the wire

LEFTY FEEP'S ARABIAN NIGHTMARE

183

basket. I take a look. Then I wish to
take a powder. Eight snakes are coiled
there on the side and bottom of the
basket.

“By the sacred cuticle of Moham-
med,” says the dervish, “this is not the
work of djinn or efreet. There is no
sorcerous enchantment involved. These
are the veritable serpents of wisdom,
who foretell the future and act as au-
guries, divinators, and — ”

“Snakes alive,” I interrupt. “Kindly
close the basket. I don’t like the way
they look at me.”

“They will not harm you,” says Ali
Ben Alikat. “Wait, and I will introduce
you. My little ones, meet Lefty Feep.”

“Hello,” I gulp, having nothing else
to say.

r jpHE snakes writhe into a heap and
suddenly they are lying coiled up
in the bottom of the basket, spelling
out the word, “H ELL O.”

Absolutely, that’s what they do!

And as the snakes coil, I recoil.

“Why do you carry them around?”
I gasp.

“Merely to warn me if the Axis or its
agents get on my trail,” explains Ali
Ben Alikat.

“But you’re not a Bagdad lad any
more,” I reason with him. “You escape,
don’t you?”

“The Axis has agents everywhere,”
Alikat sighs. “And they still wish to
secure this sceptre. I am going to give
it to a museum for safe-keeping, I be-
lieve. But I have not made arrange-
ments to turn it over. Consequently it
is still in my possession.”

“Where is it?” I ask.

“Here,” says Ali Ben Alikat. He
whips up the corner of his nightie. I
bend down and see it strapped to his
leg. Sure enough, it is a long golden
sceptre, with beautiful designs on it.

“The serpents will warn me and tell

me when to turn this over to authorities
in your country,” the dervish explains.
“They are my spiritual guides. Are you
not, my little green brothers?”

He smiles at the snakes in the bas-
ket and lowers his nightie again.

Suddenly he frowns. He stares down
and points at the snakes with a skinny
finger. I look at them. The serpents
coil up furiously and I read their mes-
sage. “LOOK O U T,” is what seven
of the snakes spell, and the eighth one
is just trying to form itself into an
exclamation point when —

The lights go out.

So do I, almost. Because I hear a
swish and a thud behind my ear. I duck
just in time. I hear Ali Ben Alikat
screeching in the darkness, and know
he is fighting some one or some thing.
I turn and grapple with a figure. And
when I grapple, I really grap. There is
a lot of howling and yelling and cursing,
and then the lights go on again and I
am standing there with my foot caught
in a cuspidor.

Ali Ben Alikat is leaning against the
bar, clutching his basket of snakes. His
turban is a little unravelled, and he is
breathing hard, but he is not hurt. He
gives me the old glare and stare.

“Dog of a dog!” he howls. “Pig of
a pig! Mule of a mule!”

“Make up your mind,” I suggest.

“You are a spy,” he accuses. “You
put the frame around me, eh?”

“I don’t frame you,” I object.

“You turn out the lights and let them
attack me,” he wails. “Then they steal
my sceptre.”

“Nobody steals a sceptre,” I tell him.

“Look,” yells Ali Ben Alikat, lifting
his skirts. “It is gone from my leg. It
is stolen!”

“It is not stolen,” I reply. “When
the lights go out, I take the sceptre from
your leg, yes. And I use it to hit the
attackers over the head. That’s how I

184

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

drive them away. Take a look.”

AND I show him the sceptre in my
hand. It is not damaged, even
though I do use it to work on our mys-
terious enemies, whoever they are.

“Allah be praised!” gasps the der-
vish. “You are indeed my preserver,
my benefactor. I rub my forehead in
the dust to you, oh brave effendi Feep.”
“Think nothing of it,” I say, handing
him the golden sceptre, which he stows
away once more in his garter.

“This settles it,” he sighs. “It proves
the Axis is on my trail. Tomorrow I
shall go to the museum — there is to be
a director’s meeting — and I shall turn
the sceptre of Haroun A1 Raschid over
to them in the name of my government.”
“Very sensible idea,” I agree.

“Until that time,” says Ali, “you
must keep the snakes.”

“Me? But why?”

“Because you are now in danger.
This attack proves it. Since you save
me and the sceptre, they will be on your
trail too. I insist that you keep the
snakes to warn you, to protect you
from our evil assailants.”

He hands me the basket.

“Tomorrow night we will go to the
museum together,” he says. “Now I
shall leave and make arrangements. . I
am staying at the Ardlore Hotel. Call
me there, and I shall be your humble
servant in any enterprise you desire.
Until then, farewell.”

Before I know it, this dervish has
me whirling. Half an hour ago I never
set my orbs on him in my life. Now I
am already mixed up with Axis spies,
a golden sceptre, and a nest of snakes.
More than that, he is ready to leave me
holding the bag.

Or holding the wire basket, rather.
I stand there trying to figure things
out, and he slips the tin tuba in my
hand.

“When you desire information from
the sacred snakee,” he says, “then you
will blow upon this. Do you know
how to blow?”

“Yes,” I assure him. “I know how
to blow.”

So I pick up the tuba and the basket,
and while he is bowing and scraping,
I blow.

I blow out of the Oasis and wander
down the street, hugging the tuba and
lugging the basket of snakes under my
arm.

I walk down the street, pretty glad
that it is a quiet evening by this time,
and there is no one to notice me and
what I am carrying.

But I do not get very far before I go
from glad to bad. I am in fact also sad
and mad — because coming down the
sidewalk towards me is none other than
that fascinating female, Fanny.

Sure enough, my ex-girl friend is
waddling and toddling in my direction.
It is too dark to see her face, but her
wiggle is familiar.

And here I am, stuck with a basket-
ful of snakes! A mess from Mesopo-
tamia!

T HAVE a snehking hunch that Fanny
is not fond of serpents. And I don’t
dare to ditch the sacred snakes. Being
a woman, she will ask me what I have
in the basket, and I can not think of a
quick answer unless I say, “I am tak-
ing some food to my Grandma.”

This will not do either, since Fanny
knows my Grandma and anyone who
knows my Grandma will realize that
she does not care for any food except
gin.

So I am definitely on the spot.

There is only one thing to do and
that is to get rid of the basket.

As I see Fanny coming down the
block, I duck into a doorway and open
the basket. I grab a handful of snakes

LEFTY FEEP'S ARABIAN NIGHTMARE

185

and stuff them into my pockets and
then throw the basket away.

I do not know if you ever have a
pocketful of snakes in your life, but
take it from me, you feel very wormy
and squirmy.

But I do not mind, because I am
really hot to patch things up with
Fanny. I step out on the sidewalk and
give her a big smile.

She is in a good humor, because she
smiles right back.

“Why Lefty Feep, of all people,” she
giggles. “How are you?”

I take her arm and tell her how I
are, and steer her into a conversation,
to say nothing of a hot-dog stand on the
corner.

“This meeting calls for a celebra-
tion,” I tell her. “How about a ham-
burger?”

We sit on a couple of stools and order,
and she begins to exert tongue and lung
about her ballet dancing.

“The final rehearsal is over,” she
tells me. “We open tomorrow night.
I am dancing in Schtunkowski’s ballet,
La Spectre de la Retch. And guess who
the conductor is?”

Me, I do not care who the conductor
is, or the motorman either, but I can
see she is very excited about her pro-
fessional debut as a ballet hoofer. So
I listen to her and nod my head over
the hamburgers.

“You will want to see the perform-
ance,” she tells me. “Here is a com-
plimentary ticket, Lefty. I get them
from Herman Sherman.”

I take the ticket, but even though it
is a front row seat, my eyes do not pop
over it.

My eyes are popping over something
else.

When Fanny mentions the name of
Herman Sherman, something happens.
Two snakes slither out of my pocket
and wriggle to the floor. And they coil

themselves into the shape of a swastika.

“Herman Sherman,” she says, and
the snakes make a swastika on the floor
of the hamburger joint.

My eyes pop and my heart starts to
hop. But nobody notices the serpents,
and in a minute they crawl up the side
of the stool and get back into my
pocket.

CTILL, I am doing a lot of thinking.

These snakes are supposed to warn
me. And if they make a swastika —

“Pardon me, honey,” I say to Fanny.
“But this fellow who is backing the
ballet — ”

“You mean this impresario?”

“That is not a very nice thing to call
a guy,” I tell her, “but maybe you are
right. What I mean to ask — is this
Herman Sherman by any chance a Ger-
man?”

“Why, yes, I think he is,” Fanny
tells me. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” I answer. But I do
know. “Herman the German,” I mut-
ter, under my breath. I have this
hunch. Can it be that Fanny’s new
boy friend is one of the Axis agents Ali
Ben Alikat is afraid of?

“What is the matter with you,
Lefty?” asks Fanny. She notices that
I am squirming around in my seat. Of
course I cannot tell her that the snakes
are getting warm in my pocket and do-
ing a little exploring.

“Nothing at all,” I tell her. And just
to keep her from noticing too much, I
slip the little tin tuba out of my coat
pocket and wave it around.

“Why Lefty, don’t tell me you are a
musician,” Fanny gurgles.

“All right, I won’t tell you,” I say.

“I never know' you are artistic,” says
Fanny. “I adore artists, you know.
Poor boy, no wonder you are nervous
and fidgety. You must have an artistic
temperament.”

186

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

What I really have is snakes in the
shorts, but I don’t dare mention it.
Still, if Fanny likes artists and musi-
cians, then that’s my cue.

“I do a little something along that
line,” I admit.

“Then we are twin souls” Fanny
sighs. “Lefty— -you must play some-
thing for me.”

“Not now,” I stall. “Not here.”

“Why not?” she coaxes. “There are
no other customers.”

“But I can’t — ”

“You play something or I’ll never
speak to you again! ” she says, tempera-
mental — though she is more temper
than mental.

“All right,” I sigh.

But I do not have to play the tin
tuba. There is an unexpected inter-
ruption.

As I reach for the tuba, Fanny
reaches for her hamburger. Only a
snake gets there first. When she looks
down, there is a serpent, nibbling at
her bun.

“Eeeeeeek!” she comments.

She grabs for her purse to run, but
there happens to be another snake
crawling around there. It is staring
into the pocket mirror as if it wants to
powder its nose.

T STARE around and see that my
snakes are breaking loose. The
whole hamburger stand seems to be full
of them. They smell food and they
are wriggling and writhing all over the
place.

“Great snakes!” yells the guy be-
hind the counter. He dives for them
with his cleaver.

I do not know if he is attacking them
or stealing them on account of the meat
shortage.

I swing into action, chasing them and
trying to stuff the snakes back into my
pockets.

“What are you doing?” Fanny
shrieks.

“Can’t you see?” I gasp. “I’m try-
ing to get them back into my trousers.”

She hits me over the head with a
bottle of ketchup.

“I’ll have nothing to do with a man
who keeps snakes in his trousers,” she
rages.

“But Fanny-—” I yell. It is too late.
Jumping over the snakes on the floor
she starts bawling while they are crawl-
ing, and then she runs out of the joint.

I watch the hamburger stand attend-
ant do a little snake dance behind the
counter, and then swing into action to
catch the wrigglers.

By the time I stuff them back into
my pockets I am tired and perspired.
I pay for the hamburgers and march
out. “A fine kettle of fish,” I think.
“A fine nest of snakes.”

I stumble wearily and drearily home
to bed. I take off my clothes and hit
the hay without delay. I am in bed a
few minutes and then the snakes crawl
in with me to keep warm. I am too
fagged out to object, and fall sound
asleep.

Drinking and fighting and excitement
really get me down, I guess, because
when I wake up it is very late the next
morning. In fact it is so late it is al-
most twilight of the afternoon.

I bound out of bed, partly because I
realize I oversleep, and partly because
one of the snakes is trying to coil up in
my pajama trousers.

“I must call Ali Ben Alikat,” I re-
member, and dial the Ardlore Hotel and
ask for him.

“Mr. Alikat is out,” says the room
clerk.

“Where is he?” I persist. I must tell
him at once that I suspect Herman the
German.

“He is meeting a Mr. Herman Sher-
man,” says the room clerk.

LEFTY FEEFS ARABIAN NIGHTMARE

187

"What?" I yell, my heart sinking.

“Mr. Herman Sherman, director of
the Cosmopolitan Museum,” the clerk
adds.

My heart sinks still further. It
would take a diving bell to get it back
up. Because now I know Herman
Sherman must be the guy responsible
for this mess. There is no Cosmopoli-
tan Museum in town, and he is luring
Ali Ben Alikat into a trap.

I hang up and hang my head.

What can I do?

I must find Ali Ben Alikat. But
where? Where is he meeting Herman
the German? How can I find out my
next move?

Glancing down at the floor, I notice
one of the snakes, coiling around the
little tin tuba.

And I get an idea.

Ali Ben Alikat tells me to play the
tuba when I want a warning or some ad-
vice from the serpents!

I may not know which way to turn,
but the snakes do.

So I pick up the tuba and begin to
blow.

The snakes glide off the bed and onto
the floor. I really let go with a blast
of reptile hep style.

C URE enough, the snakes glide around
for a while and then head in a body
for the carpet. All eight of them.

I watch while they form out a word.
Just one word.

“FANN Y.”

It fascinates me to see them arch
their backs to form the angles. Then
I stare at the message.

“FANNY.”

What does it mean? I want to know
where to go to find Ali Ben Alikat and
they spell out the name of my ex-girl
friend. She is mad at me. How can
she help? Besides, she is appearing in
a ballet tonight at the theatre.

Then I remember — she gives me a
ticket to the show. Can it be that I am
supposed to go there?

It’s a hunch.

I dress in a hurry and then ponder.
Should I take the snakes with me? Re-
membering what happens last night, I
don’t want to. But from now on I’ll
need lots of advice.

So I stuff the sacred serpents in my
pockets again, grab the tuba, and rush
out to the street to grab a cab.

Off to the theatre I go, to catch
Fanny before the show starts. She will
give me information, if the snakes do
not double-cross me.

I head for the stage door and the
first person I run into is Fanny’s maid,
Sciatica.

“Oh Mistah Feep!” yaps Sciatica.
“Ah nevah been so glad to see anybody
like Ah is you.”

“What kind of talk is that — ‘I is
you’?” I ask.

But Sciatica doesn’t bother to ex-
plain.

“Sump’n awful’s done gone an’ hap-
pened,” she bawls. “Miss Fanny’s
havin’ a hystericals all ovah de place.
Mistah Herman Sherman don’ show up
foh de perfohmance at all so f ah. An’
he ain’t got no orchestra cornin’ foh to
play tonight, neithah. We is in a mess.
Maybe you-all can help Miss Fanny to
calm down.”

“Lead me to her,” I say, and she
does.

Fanny is in her dressing-room, in
costume, and when I come in she is
gnawing at her rhinestones and crying.

“Oh, Lefty I ” she sobs. “Isn’t it aw-
ful? Herman Sherman has left the show
in the lurch. We are going on in ten
minutes and there’s no music. Who
ever hears of a ballet without music?”

“Never mind that,” I snap. “Where
is’ Herman Sherman?”

She doesn’t know.

188

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

“Does he ever speak of Ali Ben Ali-
kat?” I ask.

“Lefty!” squeaks the girl. “I am in
trouble and you ask me about alley
'.ats ! ”

I frown. Evidently the snakes make
mistakes when they direct me here.
Fanny does not know anything about
Herman the German and his plans.

All she can do is blow about the
show.

“Almos’ curtain time, Miss Fanny,”
says Sciatica.

Fanny bawls again. Then she no-
tices that I am carrying my tuba.

“Lefty,” she says. “You can save
us I This is a modernistic ballet. I am
going to be Scheherazade. All I need
is a little oriental music. Now if you
will play your tuba — ”

“But I can’t,” I pant. “You don’t
know — ”

“Just fake it,” she pleads. “Inter-
pretive stuff. Just to please the audi-
ence. To save the ballet. My reputa-
tion is at stake. Oh you must do this
for me, Lefty.”

CHE FALLS on my neck. Meanwhile
Sciatica falls on me from behind.
The two of them just about carry me
out to the orchestra pit. They shove
me down the steps in the darkness.

I can’t escape. I hear the warning
buzz. The house is packed. I sit there
clutching my tuba, getting ready to
run. It all happens too quickly for me
— I am bewildered.

Then the curtain rises.

Six chorus girls scamper out against
an oriental backdrop and begin to ex-
hibit their oriental backdrops, kicking
their legs in unison.

I pick up the tuba and begin to blow
into it softly, trying to keep the snakes
in my pocket from hearing it.

Meanwhile I watch the stage. After
a little scampering around, Fanny

makes her appearance — and that is just
what she makes, in the little pile of
beads they string together for her cos-
tume. She might just as well be back
in burlesque.

But the audience gives her a hand
and I give her the old tuba. Fanny
really works on this, I can tell, because
she begins to dance like mad all over
the place, jumping and bouncing
around.

I realize how hard she is trying and
how much this means to her, so I warm
up and try to pick out a real tune on
the tuba. I blow until I glow, and put
my heart and both lungs into my work,
until I am blasting away and making
as much noise as a whole orchestra.

It is too bad I get so wrapped up in
my work. Because when I look at the
stage again, it is too late.

Without my noticing it, the snakes
creep from my pockets, all eight of
them. They head for the stage. Of
course they are flat behind the foot-
lights and the audience cannot see them,
but the six girls can.

Suddenly their dancing changes.
They begin to run. And the snakes
chase them. The snakes crawl up their
legs while they dance.

In a minute there is no ballet going on
any more. There is a good old-fash-
ioned shimmy and hula-hula contest.

Fanny gets her share of attention
from the reptiles, too. She screams and
shakes, and in a minute Fanny is really
wiggling ditto.

The audience begins to howl and
hoot and whistle and applaud and the
girls begin to shake and quake and
quiver and shiver and the snakes begin
to worm and squirm and there is one
swell riot. Really hell to pay for the
ballet.

I stop the tuba but too late. The
house comes down with applause.

Then the curtain comes down, and

LEFTY FEEP'S ARABIAN NIGHTMARE

189

so do the girl’s costumes.

The jig is the only thing that is up.

While the girls run screaming from
the stage, I dash up, cursing, and corral
the eight snakes.

I have only one idea, and that is to
get out of there. Now I know where I
stand with Fanny, and all I can do is
rave. Those snakes queer my life for
me with their bum advice, and I figure
the hell with what they spell.

I emerge from the stage-door en-
trance with only one ambition — to go
home and make some snake soup.

But in the alley there is something
else cooking.

As I step out, a fat man comes up
behind me and begins to scrape at my
ribs with a wicked-looking razor.

“Kindly do not sharpen your razor
on my spine,” I say, mildly.

T)UT the guy does not go for this
suggestion. Instead he goes for my
liver with his knife.

“Hold very still,” he advises me.
“You are Lefty Feep, are you not?”

“How do you guess?” I ask.

“Herman tells me to keep on the
lookout for a stupid-looking jerk,” he
comes back.

“Herman!” I exclaim the name.
“Herman Sherman?”

“None other, brother,” says the fat
man. “He sends me to find you.”

“I am looking for him, too, I tell the
fat party. “And I am looking for Ali
Ben’ Alikat.”

The fat man chuckles softly, like an
erupting volcano. “You are looking
for him, eh?” he remarks. “Well, you
will never find him. And it is better
for you if you forget there ever is such
a person.”

“Don’t tell me you kill him,” I gasp.

“What makes you think that?” in-
quires the oversized guy.

“I know all about Herman Sherman,”

I blurt out. “I know he is after that
sceptre of Haroun A1 Raschid. I know
he is an Axis agent and that he wants
to steal the sceptre and take it back to
Iraq to impress the natives there. I
know he lures Ali Ben Alikat some-
where by pretending to be the director
of a museum.”

“You know a lot of things,” says
Fatty. “In fact you know almost too
much. But I know a couple of things
about you, too.”

“For instance?”

“For instance, you have the sacred
snakes that come from under the Kaaba
stone,” the guy tells me. “And you
play a tuba so that the snakes will spell
out words and give advice. That is why
I am here to interview you. I must
take those snakes with me.”

He reaches into my pockets and grabs
a handful of squirmers. I do not ob-
ject, because he keeps his razor very
close to my spinal cord.

“Why do you want the snakes?” I
ask, politely.

“Because I will take them to this Ali
Ben Alikat and tell him you are really
the Axis agent who is on his trail. I
will tell him you engineer that attack in
the tavern last night. I will help Her-
man Sherman to convince him he should
turn over the sceptre to us. You see,
right now he believes Herman Sherman
is from the museum. Once he hears
you are the Axis agent he will be so
grateful to us that we will get the scep-
tre without any violence. And we hate
violence,” says the guy, jabbing me
with the razor and laughing.

I shiver and look down the deserted
alley as he takes the rest of the snakes.

“Now hand me the tuba,” suggests
Fatso. I do so.

“That takes care of things, I think,”
he tells me. “Oh, just one thing more.
I owe you this for hitting me with the
sceptre in the tavern last night.”

190

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

And he raps me over the skull with
the tuba.

Never before do I know a tuba can
produce such music. There is a ring-
ing and a roaring in my ears and I go
down for the count in the alley as the
fat party scrams.

He waits until a car drives up and
then hops in and beats it to the hide-
out of Herman the German. This
turns out to be the cellar of an old house
over on 22 nd Street.

The reason I know this is because I
am hanging on to the spare tire and rear
bumper. I manage to crawl on my
hands and knees when the car pulls up
in the alley, and I hang there for dear
life as we drive through the dark
streets. I am woozy and weak, but I
know I must go through with this.

VX7'E PULL up in front of this dark

r house. It looks sleepy but creepy.
Fatty and the chauffeur get out and go
down the steps to a cellar entrance. I
quietly fall off my perch and crawl up
to the cellar window on my hands and
knees.

I look in and see a candle flickering
on a table in the dingy cellar room.

Fatty and the chauffeur are inside
talking to a little baldheaded lout who
is strictly from sauerkraut. I guess this
must be Herman the German. He is
waving his arms, and when he sees the
snakes and the tuba he rubs his hands
and glances at a wristwatch.

Evidently Ali Ben Alikat does not
arrive yet, because I do not see him on
the premises.

After a little pantomime, the three of
them leave the room. The snakes and
the tuba are on a table. The snakes
crawl around, and so do I.

I crawl up and test the cellar window.
It gives. In a moment I am inside the
cellar room. I reach for the tuba and
pocket it. Then I grab for the snakes,

but there are footsteps outside. The
Axis axes are returning.

Up to and out of the window I go,
with just the tuba, and I hide in the
bushes. But they are in the room be-
fore I can close the cellar window again.

Herman the German notices it is
open.

“Himmel!” he yells. “Somebody in
here sneaking is! Somebody crawls
the window through and the tuba
steals.”

“Looks that way,” says the fat party.
“Wonder why?”

“Dumkopf, do you not standunder?”
yells Herman the German. “When Ali
Ben Alikat here comes this enemy will
the tuba play so the snakes will him
warn, nein?”

“You mean you believe that wild
story about these snakes?” asks the fat
lug. “That they can curl themselves
up into letters and spell out a warning?”

“They can of course so do,” says
Herman. “But Ali Ben Alikat must
not a warning get. He will in a few
minutes arrive and we must before then
the snakes gefix.”

“How do you intend to gefix the ge-
snakes?” asks the chauffeur, a thin
droop.

“Thus and so,” says Herman the
German. He stares at the snakes and
produces a bottle of whiskey.

“Whiskey?” gurgles the fat personal-
ity. “That’s for snake-bites, isn’t it?
These snakes can’t bite anybody.”

“I dunno,” says the chauffeur. “They
look like adders to me.”

“They can’t do mathematics too, can
they?” asks the fat party.

“Never mind,” Herman the German
snarls. “I am going to the snakes ge-
fix so they will give a warning won’t,
nein?”

Staring at the snakes, he pours a part
of the whiskey on the table in a pool.

I get his idea and I am horrified.

LEFTY FEEP'S ARABIAN NIGHTMARE

191

The snakes are petrified. At least,
they are in a few minutes. Because they
begin to lap up the whiskey. In a few
minutes more they will be too drunk to
spell any words, no matter how I play
the tuba. My little scheme is knocked
flat.

And it looks like I will be knocked
flat myself.

Because Herman the German turns
to the fat party and says, “Now you will
out go and the grounds search. If the
party who crawls through the window
you find, you will please his throat cut.
Nein?”

And Fatty nods and brings out his
razor. He heads for the door. But as
he does so, Ali Ben Alikat, wearing his
nightie, walks up the path and down
the cellar steps.

t'ATTY is at the door so I dare not
call out. Ali Ben Alikat goes into
the den of thieves.

The jig is definitely up.

Herman Sherman gives him a bow
and a nod and a greasy smile and Ali
Ben Alikat gives him the sceptre.

At least he pulls it out of his garter
and holds it up. The golden sceptre of
Haroun A1 Raschid glitters in the dim
light and so do the eyes of the three
Axis agents.

Then he notices the snakes, lapping
whiskey on the table. Fatty starts to
tell him the fake story— how I am really
an Axis agent and arrange this attack
on him, and how he finds me and takes
the snakes away again. Ali doesn’t
know what to believe, but I can see he
is falling for it.

“I appreciate your kindness,” says
Ali. “Making this meeting a secret so
Feep and his gang will not discover us.
And on behalf of my government I
present you, as Director of Cosmopoli-
tan Museum, with this sacred relic—
the veritable sceptre of Haroun A1 Ra-

schid, Caliph of Bagdad, Protector of
the Poor, Lord of — ”

“What is?” yells Herman the Ger-
man, suddenly.

Because I am crouching outside the
window, blowing the tuba. I know the
snakes are drunk, but I hope against
hope. It is all I can do, against three
men.

And my effort is in vain. The snakes
are really woo 2 y by now. Nobody could
read their writhing.

They squirm a bit when they hear my
tune, but all at once they just lie still.
They do not form any words. Some are
all curled up in a ball and others just
lie out straight, full length.

But no words.

No hope.

Nothing!

The dervish squints at them when
he hears the music. The Axis agents
stare at Ali Ben Alikat. He shrugs,
stares at the snakes, and smiles.

Then he hands them the sceptre.

Herman the German reaches for it.

And suddenly the dervish starts to
whirl !

I never see a whirling dervish in ac-
tion before, and it is something to be-
hold.

Ali Ben Alikat spins himself like a
top. He stands there, turning around
faster and faster until you can not see
his face or figure — just a whirling body
with a blowing beard. And as he whirls
he moves. He moves forward, fast.

His figure, like a human top, careens
into Herman the German and knocks
him over a table. Fatty gets out his
razor, but somehow Ali Ben Alikat, still
whirling, grabs the sceptre and bounces
it off the fat party’s skull.

The chauffeur has a pistol in his hand
by this time — and I come through the
window just in time to grab it.

Ali Ben Alikat, whirling like mad,
pockets the snakes as they lie coiled

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

19Z

up and stretched out. He waves the
sceptre in farewell. Maybe it is just a
dervish trick, but he spins faster and
faster and faster — and then he isn’t
there any more.

Yes, the dervish disappears into thin
air. One last twist and he is gone.

I am left holding a pistol, pointing
it at the three Axis agents on the floor.

So it works out, after all.

I turn them over to the authorities
right away. Ali Ben Alikat saves his
sceptre. Everything is strictly on the
up and up once more.

The way it turns out later, I discover
that Fanny isn’t even sore at me about
the snakes.

It seems the owner of the Oasis — the
Sneak of Araby — happens to be in the
audience at the ballet and when he sees
her shimmy he signs her up at a big
salary for the cafe.

So she is practically back in burles-
que after all, and I am tops with her
again.

Yes, everything works out for the
best, because those clever snakes warn
Ali Ben Alikat.

* * *

T EFTY Feep sat back, but
long.

not for

I grabbed him by the collar.

“Listen,” I snapped. “How could
those snakes warn the dervish? I
thought they were drunk.”

“Only pretending,” Lefty told me.
“They are smart, see?”

“You mean they spelled out a word
when you played the tuba outside the
window?”

“Right,” Feep told me. “When I
play the tuba, they tell Ali Ben Alikat
to beware.”

“But you said the Germans didn’t
see any word,” I persisted.

Feep smiled. “Of course not,” he
chuckled. “The snakes are very clever.
They know they are in the hands of the
enemy. So this time they don’t spell
out a word regularly. Remember, I
mention some of them are curled up in
a ball and others are stretched out full
length?”

“You mean—?”

“Exactly,” said Lefty Feep. “The
sacred snakes spell out their warning
in a new way I teach them before they
are stolen. They give Ali Ben Alikat an
S.O.S. — but this time they do it in
Morse Code!”

THE END

Statement of the ownership, management, circulation, etc., required by the Acts of Congress of August 24, 1912,
and March 3, 1933. of Fantastic Adventures, published bi-monthly at Chicago, Illinois, for Oct. 1, 1943. State of
Illinois, County of Cook, ss. Before me, a notary public in and for the State and county aforesaid, personally
appeared A. T. Pullen, who, having been duly sworn according to law, deposes and says that he is the business
manager of Fantastic Adventures and that the following is, to the best of his knowledge and belief, a true state-
ment of the ownership, management (and if a daily paper, the circulation, etc., of the aforesaid publication for
the date shown in the above caption, required by the Act of August 24, 1912, as amended by the Act of March
3, 1933, embodied In section 537, Postal Laws and Regulations, printed on the reverse of this form, to wit:
1. That the names and addresses of the publisher, editor, managing editor and business managers are: Publisher,
William B. Ziff. 540 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago 11, HI.; Editor, B. G. Davis, 540 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago 11,
111.; Managing Editor, Raymond Palmer, 540 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago 11, 111.; Business Manager, A. T. Pullen,
540 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago 11, 111. 2. That the owner is: (If owned by a corporation, its name and address
must be stated and also immediately thereunder the names and addresses of stockholders owning or holding one
per cent or more of total amount of stock. If not owned by a corporation, the names and addresses of the indi-
vidual owners must, be given. If owned by a firm, company or other unincorporated concern, its name and ad-
dress, as well as those of each individual member, must be given.) Ziff-Davis Publishing Co., 540 N. Michigan
Ave., Chicago 11, 111.; W. B. Ziff Co., 540 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago 11, 111.; William B. Ziff, 540 N. Michigan
Ave., Chicago 11, 111.; B. G. Davis, 540 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago 11, I1L ; A. Ziff, 540 N. Michigan Ave., Chi-
cago 11, HI. ; S. Davis, 540 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago 11, 111. 3. That the known bondholders, mortgagees, and
other security holders owning or holding one per cent or more of total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other
securities: (If there are none, bo state.) None. 4. That the two paragraphs next above, giving the names of the

owners, stockholders, and security holders, if any, contain not only the list of stockholders and security holders
as they appear upon the books of the company, but also, in cases where the stockholder or security holder appears
upon the books of the company as trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the name of the person or corpora-
tion for whom such trustee is acting, is given; also that the said two paragraphs contain statements embracing
affiant's full knowledge and belief as to the circumstances and conditions under which stockholders and security
holders who do not appear upon the books of the company as trustees, hold stock and securities in a capacity
other than that of a bona fide owner; and this affiant has no reason to believe that any other person, association,
or corporation has any interest direct or indirect in the said stock, bonds, or other securities than as so stated
by him. 5. That the average number of copies of each issue of this publication sold or distributed, through the

mails or othevwiie, to paid subscribers during the twelve months preceding the date shown above is

(This information is required from daily publications only.) A. T. Pullen, Business Manager. (Signature of busi-
ness manager.)

Sworn to and subscribed before me this 30th day of September, 1943.

(SeaL) Mae Harris, Notary Public. (My commission expires Sept. 11, 1944.)

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

193

W ILL you write a letter to a Prisoner
of War . . . tonight?

Perhaps he was left behind when
Bataan fell. Perhaps he had to bail out
over Germany. Anyway, he’s an Amer-
ican, and he hasn’t had a letter in a
long, long time.

And when you sit down to write, tell
him why you didn’t buy your share of
War Bonds last pay day— if you didn’t.
“Dear Joe,” you might say, “the
old topcoat was getting kind of
threadbare, so I . .

No, cross it out. Joe might not under-
stand about the topcoat, especially if

he’s shivering in a damp Japanese cell.

Let’s try again. “Dear Joe, I’ve been
working pretty hard and haven’t had
a vacation in over a year, so . . .”

Better cross that out, too. They don’t
ever get vacations where Joe’s staying.

Well, what are you waiting for? Go
ahead, write the letter to Joe. Try to
write it, anyhow.

But if somehow you find you can’t, v/ill
you do this? Will you up the amount
you’re putting into your Payroll Savings
Plan — so that you’ll be buying your
share of War Bonds from here on in?

ZIFF-DAVIS PUBLISHING COMPANY

This advertisement prepared under the auspices oi the War
Advertising Council and the U. S. Treasury Department.

194

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

Originally

p l

tien, 6 V 2 T

<J-j inches, at-
.ractivsly bound,
ontaininj 192 pages.

Partial Contents

The structure and mutual adjust-
ment of the male and female
systems.

Fundamental facts concerning:
coitus.

Ignorance of the bride and un-
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Regulation of coitus in marriage.

What a wife must do to bring her
husband’s sexual desires into
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Charts showing periodicity of
natural desire in women.

Proper positions for coitus.

The marital rights of the hus-
band.

Problems of childless unions.

The intimate physical contacts of
love in marriage.

Surest way to prepare wife for
coitus.

Causes for unhappiness in mar-
riage.

The problem of the strong-sexed
husband and the weak-sexed
wife.

Frequency of conjugal relations.

Sleeplessness from unsatisfied sex
needs.

Pregnancy and conjugal rela-
tions.

The art of love.

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READER'S PAGE

ANOTHER YERXA FAN

Sirs:

Just finished reading the December issue of
Fantastic Adventures, and would like to add
that I’ve been reading FA only about three months
and found no other mag that can even begin to
compare. The stories are of the type that I really
go for. The following is a list of stories from the
December issue which were really good.

First, there’s “Witch of Blackfen Moor,” which
I thought quite interesting. Second, I like “Spawn
of' the Glacier,” which is the type of story that
really holds my interest. The rest were all fair.
As for Leroy Yerxa, I think he’s tops; he really
knows how to hold you in interest. Very good
at description, and really puts the idea across.
Above all, keep Leroy Yerxa! I read George W.
Hall’s letter and it really made me mad. Keep
FA in there, it’s swell!

Lester Kelo

15106 Turlington Ave.

Harvey, HI.

Glad to see you found so much entertainment
in Fantastic Adventures. Yes, as you say, Le-
roy Yerxa is tops. His recent progress has amazed
even your editors l — Ed.

A SEQUEL?

Sirs:

In your magazine Fantastic Adventures of
October, I read “Warrior Maids of Libya” by
Leroy Yerxa. I enjoyed the story very much,
but the ending definitely no. I would appreciate
knowing if the author intends to write a sequel
to the story, or does he just intend to leave it
as it is.

If he intends to write a sequel to it, please
let me know in what month’s magazine you
intend to print it.

Hoping to hear from you soon.

Sgt. Walter J. Greczynski
Military Secret,

U. S. A.

Mr. Yerxa confesses he had a sequel in mind,
but it’ll have to be good to get by us. Sequel s
usually turn out to be anti-climactical. However,
we shall see. — Ed.

A MORALE BUILDER

Sirs:

In your issue dated December, 1943, which is,
incidentally, the first (but by no means the last)
copy of Fantastic Adventures 'I’ve read, there
were two stories, by different writers, each con-

taining as the main character a bat-winged, or
shall I say, Satan-winged girl. I was really
gratefully amazed at the two stories, which, though
having the same motif, were so widely different
in their general scope.

Really, in this respect, your magazine is unique,
as generally one glimpses at least some similarity
of plot-design when a thing like this happens in
the writing world! The stories to which I refer
are, respectively, “Witch of Blackfen Moor,” by
Lee Francis, and “Cloak of Satan” by Frank
Patton. The first mentioned had a British back-
ground, while the latter was supposed to take
place in New York. Each story was perfect, in
its way, and I especially liked their endings.

“The Wooden Ham,” by Morris J. Steele, was
a gem. It belongs in some anthology of “best
short stories of 1943.” It had just enough of the
religious atmosphere to set one a-thinking! A
masterpiece, if there ever was one! I’ve read it
through several times, and expect to read it often,
to sort of “bolster up” my morale. I, too, have
a soldier boy “somewhere,” doing his bit for Uncle
Sam — and this story provides me with more faith
than I ever thought possible ! Bless the writer !

Mrs. Muriel E. Eddy
383 Friendship Street
Providence 7, R. I.

You can’t imagine how good your letter makes
us feel. Letters like yours build our morale, too
— because we like to know that our efforts at giv-
ing you the best fiction possible in these times
bear good fruit. — Ed.

A SEVERE (AND MISTAKEN) CRITIC
Sirs:

You, sir, brag of having the largest circulation
in the STF. and Fantasy field with your 2 mags.
However you appeal only to a certain class of
readers. Those from the ages of 4 to 12. You
will never find a true fantasy fan reading your
publication. Most of your readers are the wide-
mouthed instead of the wide awake type. Anyone
who would read such awful trash as Jewels of the
Toad, Horse on Lefty Feep. Shades of the old
Amazing Stories (pre 1933). You say that you
try to appeal to your readers. Remember how-
ever that your own Amazing Stories between 1926-
30 sold over 100,000 copies a month. And there
was a lot of difference between them and you.
You say that the old classics can’t come up to
today’s tales. When will your magazine publish
another Moon Pool? Another Skylark? Another
White Lily. How many stories like that have

196

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you published? I’ll tell you sir. None!

You appeal to your reader solely because he
or she doesn’t read another publication (St£).
Either by the time they have read Fantastic Ad-
ventures they are tired of Stf. or they graduate
into the type that reads good science-fiction.

Think it over carefully Mister Editor. Think
it over. You were a Stf. fan yourself once. Also
find what your readers think of this.

A Fan,

411 S. Fess
Bloomington, Indiana

Now we know you’re kidding! If so, all is for.-
given. But if you mean it . . . well we gotta up
and defend ourselves and the rest of our readers
who disagree with you. First, where did you get
the 100,000 figure? Oh, Mr. Fan, what fantasy!
We would hate to tell you how horrible the cir-
culation was when we bought the magazine, but
it is more than four times as large now. And
it certainly never was as high as you say. We
believe you have been listening to hearsay, which
is never accurate. Next, we disagree about our
readers, and their mouths. For example, Professor
Haas, of Notre Dame University, called on us
one day to express the pleasure he obtained from
reading Amazing Stories and Fantastic Adven-
tures. He is just one of many famous men who
read us. We have many juvenile readers, yes, and
we give them good juvenile stories, in direct pro-
portion. But the fact is, the juvenile story of
today is the adult story of pre 1933. ,4s for good
stones, matching any you mention, what about
“The Whispering Gorilla,” “Doorway To Hell,”
“The Vengeance Of Martin Brand,” “Black
World,” “Sons Of The Deluge,” and countless
others? All acclaimed by our readers as classics.
Your reason for our appeal is very confusing. Do
you mean we appeal because we are the only
magazine the reader reads? We should be very
flattered if that’s what you mean. Yes, we were
a fan once, and still are. Also, we have a feeling
our readers will answer your lettir in this column
— but remember, you asked for it! — Ed.

OUR SCHEDULE

Sirs:

I have all the Fantastic Adventures magazines
printed up to August 1943. The August issue
stated that there would be no Sept, issue but there
would be an October issue, but I haven’t seen
it on the stand. Did I miss it somehow? Have
you printed any issues after the August issue?

I just bought a Nov. Amazing Stones. Will
there be a Dec. issue? The Nov. issue does not
say when the next issue will hit the stand. I
sure am going crazy trying to keep up with the
set-up you are forced to keep on account of the
paper shortage.

I also just bought the special issue of Flying
on the Army Air Forces At War. It was the
best of the specials Flying has put out so far. By
the way I have S special issues of Flying.

1. Army Air Forces

2. Navy Air Forces

3. R.A.F.

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

197

4. Navy Air Forces At War

5. Army Air Forces At War

Have there been any other specials like these
by Flying ?

Can you tell me where I can buy a copy of
the book — “Dwellers In The Mirage” by Abra-
ham Merritt. Price no object.

Tony Riccardi

5718 So. Gramercy PI.

Los Angeles 37, Calif.

Yes, there was an October issue of FA. And
a December. The magazine is bi-monthly, and
you will find February, April, June, August, etc.
on sale, unless further changes are made. Amazing
Stories alternates witk Fantastic Adventures.
Mammoth Detective is quarterly, a February is-
sue being on the sta?ids now. Yes, you have all the
special issues of Flying. Great stuff, aren’t they!
Radio News has had a special issue, too. Our
subscription department can supply any issues
you have missed, of all our magazines. We be-
lieve “Dwellers In The Mirage” is out of print,
but perhaps one of our readers has a copy for
sale ? They may see this and write you . — Ed.

CONTROVERSEY ON ARTISTS

Sirs:

Waible asks for controversy in the Reader’s
Page of the October issue. (I know I am a bit
late, but have only now been able to get around
to reading it.) I am happy to oblige: F. A. does
not need Bok. No one, with the possible excep-
tion of a family of his own, needs Bok. Cartier
is far superior to Bok, for that type of drawing,
but Finlay and Magarian do fine for F. A. Bok
is a much better author than artist for the com-
petition he can meet nowadays.

Speaking of pics — how about those for the
Tink, Jing and Nastee story this time? Did that
artist even glance at the story? He shows no
signs of it, if so. I add my nam'e to the num-
berless Lefty Feep fans; he is pure corn, but
somehow fascinating, from the Rip van Winkle
episode on.

FANTASTIC is far better than Amazing (see
my subconscious rating by the caps I used) , which
goes in for too much plain hack. A transplanted
Western of some time back can still make me
shudder. Galloping caterpillar-cycles! However,
I am one of the addicts, and can't pass up any of
the mags. Keep up such stories as “World of the
Paper Dolls” and “Mystery of the Creeping Un-
derwear” and you will be right at the top in my
private list. “Jewels of the Toad” was somehow
reminiscent of “Other Worlds”; have to check
back and see who wrote that. Tarleton Fiske is
good and so far not getting “typed” in his plots.

Notice two articles by Carter Wainwright in this
issue ; the one on bees is enthralling. This reminds
me — please don’t have the back cover article
turned into a story; it is far too good just as is.
Something different.

This letter has “just growed” into a huge thing,
so had better sign off now.

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On reading this over, I must add that I meant
no slam at Finlay and Magarian or at F. A. I
merely meant that F. A. does not go in much for
the horror type of stuff which Carter and Bok are
best at.

H. I. Larsen,

Box 747,

Glenns Ferry, Idaho

Your letter needs no comment, except to say we
are glad you like our present artists. As .for Tmk
and Jing, we had the story written around the
illustrations, and it must have been McGivern’s
pre-enlistment rush of work that made him go so
far astray — or else it was that last fifth of Scotch!
— Ed. ,

ASHAMED OF FAIRY TALES?

Sirs:

Have just read the latest issue of Fantastic
Adventures. The stories are quite good so far
though I didn’t finish all the stories, but the lure
of The Reader’s Page was too much for me.

My favorite stories are those short funny ones,
I look for them the minute I get the mag.

About your covers, or is it the covers? Just
“why” Mr. Editor do some of us look around
the magazine rack, spy our unusual mags then
look furtively around to see if anyone notices, roll
it up and say, “Here’s twenty-five cents for this
magazine,” and hope to God he doesn’t insist on
looking at it? Why is that? Are we ashamed to
be caught reading magazines that run a close sec-
ond to fairy tales? Why the August issue actually
did have a fairy tale story with fairies and all.

How about you Mr. Editor? I can just see you
about to meet some very practical, hard-headed
business man.

“And what is your business Mr. Rap?”

“Oh, er . . . I’m an editor, yes an editor,” you
reply in a Gertrude Steinish way.

“Good, good,” replies hard-head. “One of the
slicks I presume.”

“Well, er, not exactly. It’s a — a pulp mag, heh,
heh. Someone has to give the ignorant public
what they want.”

Hard-head frowns at this. “Just what is the
name of your magazine?” he says, nailing you
down.

“It’s,” flushing a violent red, “it’s Fantastic
Adventures,” and you await the explosion.

“You don’t say!” replies hard-head, while you
try to recover from a slapped back. “Ya know,
I’ve been readin’ ’em since I was a kid.”

Wasn’t that cute?

Never mind, someday not too far off we may
be traveling to other worlds and you will have to
change your title as it won’t be “fantastic” any
longer.

Vida C. Schneider,

77 Chester Place,
Yonkers, New York.

When you stop to think that three million peo-

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

199

pie read these "fairy tales” each month, perhaps
you’ll be proud to have it known that you possess
the high imagination necessary to enjoy this type
of fiction! Why should you feel ashamed to do
what three million others do ? As for your editor,
he once turned down a job on a slick magazine,
because he was so damned proud of his “fairy
tales”! — Ed.

A LIST OF FAVORITES

Sirs:

Having read only ten issues of your magazine,
I have already come to the conclusion that it is
the finest of its kind on the market today. No
other fantasy magazine that I know of (and I’ve
read quite a few) can compete with yours success-
fully. To sum it up in four words: Fantastic
Adventures is tops.

Beginning from November, these are my criti-
cisms —

November — “When Freemen Shall Stand” was
the best I’ve read in years. “G. O. of Lefty Feep”
and “Talu’s Fan”' were also swell.

December — “Lost City of Burma” was terrific.
Keep it up. Others that were almost as good:
“Pegasus Plays Priorities” and of course “Lefty
Feep and the S. T. G.”

January — The best this month was “The Man
With Five Lives” and runner up was “Sammy
Calls a Noobus.”

February — My choice this month was McGiv-
em’s novelet. “The Whispering Gorilla” was good.

March— Well, this month it was a tie between
“The Enchanted Bookshelf” and “Drummers of
Daugavo.”

April — -“Furlough from Eternity” and “Mer-
chant of Venus” were the best.

May — Brengle’s “Return to Lilliput” was won-
derful. Blade’s short was pretty good.

June — Well, this issue just about topped them
all. Everyone of them deserves a compliment,
especially “Citadel of Hate,” “Genie of Bagdad”
and “Stenton’s Shadow.”

July — I must admit that this month was a bit
of a disappointment. Only Bloch’s character and
“Caverns of Time” saved.it from being a flop.

August — This month really made up for July.
“The Star Shepherd” and “You Can’t Kid Lefty
Feep” led, with “Chariot of Death” and “World
Beyond Belief” next.

It was a sorry moment when I read that you
would have to slow down the production of F. A.
Hope you’ll be able to run on schedule soon.

Kathleen Maunsbach,

939 Eighth Ave.,

New York, N. Y.

Thanks for them kind woids, Kathleen . — Ed.

LARGE PLANETS AND SMALL

Sirs:

There are a few things on my mind which I
would like to get settled.

1. A. I have read in F. A. and in A. S. of the
inhabitants of huge planets having a difficult time

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in walking, running, etc., on their own planet.

B. From same books, only with stories of a
small planet where strangely shaped buildings were
erected due to the small gravity of that planet.
Question: Don’t our esteemed authors (?) ever
take time out to think! Doesn't it seem fairly
simple that were the planet large or small its oc-
cupants would also be relatively “large or small”
as would the weights of said occupants along with
minerals etc.? Either I'm wrong or the authors
are. Please tell me which.

2. I would certainly like trimmed edges even if
this raised the cost a nickel or so.

3. You have said that authors sometimes build
a story around an illustration and vice versa.
Would the artists kindly read the story they are
going to illustrate, also vice versa? I have come
across a few stories where one or more characters
were not illustrated as they were said to be, in the
story.

4. Please put more science in your stories and
kindly refuse to even look at any story that men-
tions this war! I am not trying to ignore this
war, but you read about it no matter what type
of magazine you buy. Most people read to forget
temporarily what is going on about them. It is
almost an impossible task to accomplish these
days. Why not help us out? Keep this war out
of your mags.

Now a few bouquets— As to the Oct. ish my rat-
ings are:

1. “World of the Paper Dolls.” I see Mr. Wil-
cox is improving.

2. “Jewels of the Toad.” More like this. Really
swell, but too short!

3. “Warrior Maids of Libya.” Don’t desecrate
your mag with such drawings. The illustration
completely discouraged me. But the story was
O.K.

As to the rest of them, I’ve read better science
fiction stories, or would you prefer to call them
fantasy, in the comic papers.

Special mention to Finlay and Magarian “pics.”
More of them. More “Gluekstein Humor” please,
and make with Lefty Feep.

A PLEASED FAN,
2409 Federal St.,
Camden, N. J.

There is an axiomatic scientific law that is called
the law of inverse squares. If you double the she
and mass of an object, it takes four times the en-
ergy to move it. That’s why larger planets (where
gravity is increased four-fold along a progressive
scale, starting with that of Earth as a basis — i.e.,
twice the size of Earth, four times the gravity,
four times the size of Earth, sixteen times the
gravity, and. so on) have smaller people, according
to our authors. They simply want to make it
credible that the poor guys can move at all, or
even breathe! So, offhand, your theory is the one
in error, except for things we haven’t the space of
knowledge to explain. These phenomena are tick-
lish even for Einstein to understand. As for the
war, stories without war in them, or its influence,
would somehow not be credible. And yet, we give

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

201

you variety. Seven of our eight stories this month
don’t breathe a word of the war! — Ed.

“EFFRONTERY”

Sirs:

After four years away from science-fiction, I
happened across a copy of the October issue of
Fantastic Adventures, and my homecoming was
a fiasco. Why? Primarily because of the crummy
job McGivern did in : “Tink Fights the Gremlins.”
Nothing is more outraging than the sound of an
author thrashing in an unfamiliar jungle of words.
Mr. M. evidently does not know much about aero-
nautics. I’m no expert either, but I don’t have
the effrontery to write for a reputedly scientific
fiction publication and make statements like : “the
reconnaissance plane, both motors dead, glided for
a forced landing at 300 miles an hour!" (Eighty-
per-hour would be more accurate.) Nor would I
place my hero up at 35,000 feet and then announce
a storm was approaching and the temperature
“would drop 50° in a few minutes.” At 35,000
feet the temperature is a constant — 67°.

Finally, a word on the accompanying illustra-
tion on p. 116. Although the author states that
2 leprechauns were busy fighting off a lion from
the inert body of our hero, artist Magadan evi-
dently. was too bored to translate the thought into
English. He drew three leprechauns and had them
using swords and daggers instead of thorns.

This is by no means all that could be said, but
it’s all any reader wants to say on such a pill.

The brat story in the issue is “World of the
Paper Dolls,” a novel shoeing excellent use of
diction and a sense of timing and suspense that
makes the rest of the issue regrettable by compari-
son.

A/C Gerry Turner,
Ellington Field, Texas.

First, we admit you are perfectly correct about
the facts in McGivern’s story. We should have
caught them in editing, too. But really, the story
wasn’t a “pill’’ just because of those technical er-
rors, was it? Naturally, McGivern trod on your
toes there, but we hope that didn’t spoil the story
as a story, for you ? What if “World of Paper
Dolls’’ had contained those aeronautical errors ?
Would you have panned that yarn? The real
laugh here is that McGivern wanted to join the
air force at the time he wrote the story I — Ed.

NO GOOD?— GOOD!

Sirs:

I have just finished the Dec. issue, and thought
it was pretty bad. I have begun reading your
mag. for only four months. I’m happy about
your mag. I like only fantastic stuff. This is
how I rate your stories:

1 — “Professor Cyclone,” good mystery.

2 — “Witch of Blackfen Moor,” scary and good.
More of this type.

3 — “You Can Say That Again,” swell short
story.

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4 — “Jones Buys War Blondes.” More of this
Jones.

5 — “Freddie Funk’s Seven League Boots.” No
good.

6— “Pearl Handled Poison.” Terrible.

7 — -“Cloak of Satan.” No rime or reason to it,

8 ; — “Spawn of the Glacier.” Rates “0.”

9 — “The Wooden Ham.” Too short, no room
for story.

10 — “Heroes Die Hard.” Never did enjoy
“Gade’s” stories. Please better issues, or there will
be one reader less.

Herby Bell,

2195 East 22 St.,
Brooklyn, N. Y.

You liked, jour out of ten stories, and they were
quite long, fully half the book. We’d say we had
a pleased reader! But honestly, we'll try to give
you even more of the type you likel We appre-
ciate frank comment. — Ed.

DEFINITIONS!

Sirs:

The effort of readers to achieve definition rises
again in print. Likewise the two extremes of defi-
nition in which one reader in “Readers Page” says
most readers are stupid and another writer claims
his immediate circle of fan acquaintances are 25%
above average in intelligence.

I doubt if either claim is true or even pertinent,
except as they serve to illustrate the factor that
seems common to most readers of science fiction
and fantasy. This might be called “maladjust-
ment.” Carried to unhappy extremes that is as-
sociated with a padded cell ! However, it has also
been called “Divine Discontent”! In short, most
of your readers are rebels whom circumstance will
discipline and eventually regiment into conformity
. . . OR . . . they will discipline circumstance
and regiment it into conformity with themselves.
In yet other words, an aggregation of budding
genius and . . . er . . . ripening “nuts” ! Only time
and experiment can with certainty differentiate
one from the other!

Science-fiction and fantasy are “escape mechan-
ism” stories. True enough. So is most all fiction
literature. But the preferences in form and sub-
ject matter of such escape mechanisms expressed
by readers is quite significant and intensely inter-
esting.

I have conceived a sincere and friendly regard
for you as editor, for that matter, based upon the
same sort of analysis of your comment and even
more so upon your choice of material. All your
stories glorify and dramatize COURAGE . . . the
refusal to accept defeat. Moreover, in both
Amazing and .Fantastic you have quite consist-
ently avoided the morbid.

In fact, in December Fantastic Adventures I
have the first bone to pick with you in a long long
time. Both “Witch of Blackfen Moor” and “Cloak
of Satan” annoyed me profoundly. The implica-
tions of ideas presented.

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

203

I would not have minded “Cloak of Satan” at
all ... in fact I would have approved of it . . .
if as a final scene Satan had appeared in the back-
ground to pull a kindly grin and quietly watch the
victorious lovers embrace.

’ “Witch of Blackfen Moor” was just plain
PUTRID ... not as a story . . . but as a men-
tal viewpoint ... an idea pattern.

If, for the sake of speculative thought, you will
allow my hypothesis that most readers of science-
fiction and fantasy are REBELS . . . individuals
who refuse to accept the idea that ALL the pattern
of circumstance is “right” . . . then pause and
consider also that SATAN is the ancient symbol
of rebellion.

It is neither your fault nor mine that the sym-
bolic significance of Deity and Anti-deity have
been hopelessly tangled. Men who have sought
power by any means at hand. Men who have
sought the substance of self-esteem in the SEEM-
ING of outward pretense . . . men who have
LOST the battle WITHIN . . . and sought in
futile symbolism to win it in outward seeming
. . . Hitlers and their lesser counterparts . . .
have tangled the semantics of Deity and Anti-
deity, since they sought in Deity the AUTHOR-
ITY to command obedience to themselves as
REPRESENTATIVES of divine authority . . .
that they might thereby enhance the seeming of
their own pretense and in the dramatization of
seeming find their own personal company more
admirable.

Much of that symbolism was created under
times and conditions in which men were ruled by
kinds and absolute and highly centralized govern-
ment. Therefore, Deity was presented as the ad-
vocate of blind obedience. Quite unavoidably
Satan became the advocate of individual initia-
tive, experiment, experience, the acquisition of
knowledge, and of personal development and
growth.

BECAUSE such men have in hypocrisy tangled
the semantic values ... I have no choice but to
take my stand beside SATAN ... in kindly un-
derstanding of human error . . . and in militant
advocacy of experiment, experience, individual in-
itiative and individual development. Whether they
so candidly state the matter or not ... I think
many of your readers feel the same way. At heart
they are REBELS.

Therefore, I OBJECT most bitterly to a Satan
who exhibits the avid lascivious lust of an adoles-
cent boy ! Really, after all these thousands and
thousands of years! The direct implication is to
deny the possibility of learning anything by ex-
perience ! Don’t you think Satan should have de-
veloped a rather mature intellect AND CHARAC-
TER by this time . . . even if he was originally
the wayward child of Adoni . . . the problem
child of the Celestial Family!

WHAT utility would RULE over the whole
world have for Satan ... or any one else? EX-
CEPT to elaborate the fabric of PRETENSE and
seeming! Utterly illogical! If Satan is the sym-

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bolic advocate of experiment ... the implication
is unavoidable that he can learn from experiment.
IN SO LONG A TIME ... I think Satan would
evolve a philosophy something like this :

“NOW 1 see 1 must live with myself forever.
One cannot maintain pretense so long a time l Ex-
cept I be lovable, even an admirable companion,
HOW shall I bear mine own company V’
Hard-boiled . . . infinitely ruthless perhaps,
but with an understanding twinkle in his eyes!

Lest I offend some one who is devout and quite
literal in religious viewpoint . . . consider then
the integrity of an Omnipotent Deity . . . would
HE ever really permit actual opposition? ’Tain’t
logical. Satan “The Rebel” could only exist as a
servant who carried out his part of a plan ! And
Satan would then be a guy with a very hard and
dirty job who did it faithfully !

As far as I am concerned, it is all symbolism.
As such I object to tangling the symbolism of
Satan the Rebel . . . with items that are simply
psychosis.

Horns, tail and all, I insist on seeing Satan as a
rather nice old fella who rules wearily over a hell
where the pious and sanctified and the smugly
comfortable dwell in all the seeming of pomp,
power and outward pretense time without end . . .
until they get FED UP to where it is sheer tor-
ture . . . and they are willing to face REALITY.
IF that seems remarkably like the “Heaven” some
folks talk about . . . well ... I said the seman-
tics were tangled long, long ago ! I do not expect
ya to teach philosophy in a fiction mag, but ya
CAN exercise a bit of discretion.

George A. Foster,

P. 0. Box 188,
Stoughton, Mass.

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As far as our readers are concerned, it seems to
be SO % of one and half-a-dozen of the other.
When we come to defining the Devil, there you
can argue till doomsday l You disliked Francis’
and Patton’s stories because Ms concept of the
Devil (admittedly it could be screwy) differed
from yours. Yet, these two stories got more raves
than any stones published in the past year! Thus,
we must disagree with you — without any personal-
ities entering into it; our concept of the Devil
would be still another concept l — Ed.

SOME QUESTIONS

Sirs :

“When Freeman Shall Stand” was in my opinion
the best F. A. story ever to appear in your mag.
In Amazing, I’ll take “Warrior of the Dawn” and
“Vengeance of Martin Brand.” Why doesn’t Irwin
hurry up and get old Martin out of the fix that
he’s in. To tell the truth I like it where the hero
dies.

My favorite authors are Ed. Hamilton (my
favorite), Don Wilcox, Brett Sterling, E. R. Bur-
roughs (respectively), Nelson S. Bond, and Dave
W. O’Brien.

Let’s have another long novel by Nelson S. Bond
and please, if possible, a Hawk Carse story.

Your best cover artist for the back is James B.
Settles.

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

205

If anyone has “Master Mind of Mars” I’ll be
more than glad to Luy it.

James Ayers,
609 First St.,
Attalla, Ala.

Irwin is working on the second of the Martin
Brand stories. He tells us there will be three, al-
together! Bond is a busy man, these days. But
maybe, we’ll be getting one from him before long.
Hawk Carse is in the services of Uncle Sam, so
we’ll have to wait . — Ed.

DIFFERENT ARTISTS . . .

Sirs :

Heartiest congratulations on the Finlay illustra-
tions you've been rationing out to us since the
worthy Virgil left our ranks for those of the army ;
believe me, they’re a real boost to fan morale. The
latest (Dec. FA — pp. 26-27) is typical of him, a
happy blend of the weird and the beautiful such
as only Finlay can achieve. These drawings are
definitely the brightest spot in your art depart-
ment just now; keep ’em coming.

But about that back cover — I have a bone to
pick with you. Not only regarding this painting
but also several others in recent months. You
started your back cover series with “Life on Other
Worlds,” you’ll recall, and had artist Paul create
various weird life-forms. In “Cities of Other
Worlds,” these odd beings were depicted in their
surroundings — and each type of creature was the
same for any given planet in both series. Settles’
“Transportation of Other Worlds” series continued
to carry out the tradition. But in the current
“Warriors of Other Worlds” series, the beings
shown have NOTHING in common with their
prototypes of the earlier paintings!

Take this month for example. “Life on Mer-
cury” (FA Nov. ’39) depicts a bright red, roughly
insectile Mercurian, quite unhuman. “Quartz City
on Mercury” (AS Sept. ’41) shows the same
beings in one of their cities — but this month’s
“Warrior of Mercury” !

Please, gentlemen, let’s be consistent. Settles in
his transportation series was willing to use Paul’s
creations, for some of tis paintings anyway ; why
won’t Smith?

Paul Carter,

156 S. University St.,
Blackfoot, Idaho.

Artist Smith apparently is not a conformist. He
has his own ideas. But we hope Paul will be back
after the war ! — Ed.

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Accident Disability Benefits
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SICKNESS BENEFITS

For Loss of Time due to
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for Sickness or Accident, in-
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FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

207

PICTURE RING

Most Precious Keepsake You Can Own
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:ING CO,, Dept, p- 180 Cincinnati, Ohio

AMELIA
REYNOLDS LONG

A clever, baffling crime story in which
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mystery and vio-
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$2oo

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You may be sitting pretty
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A Correspondence Institution
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I want to know how I can prepare for post-war com-
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►-

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Address

208

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

from Our Laboratory Direct to You I

Dental Plates made to measure — Indf-
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1555 MILWAUKEE AYE., DEPT. 1-13, CHICAGO, ILUE

Kidneys Must
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LEARN AT
HOME TO

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Animals. Heads, Fishes, Pets; to TAW.

Be a Taxidermist. Profit and FUN.

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Mount ducks, squirrels, everything. Learn to
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ETDITBr DAAIf With 100 fine
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NOW absolutely FREE. Write TODAY.

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N.W. SCHOOL OF TAXIDERMY, Dept 3031, Omaha, Neb.

“Facts about EPILEPSY”

This most interesting and helpful Booklet will be
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C. M. SIMPSON

Address Dept. F-20, 1840 W. 44th Street, Cleveland, Ohia

$2oo

AT ALL BOOKSELLERS

A gripping, swift-
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told against the back-
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FANTASTIC ADVENTURES
MAMMOTH DETECTIVE
FLYING
RADIO NEWS
POPULAR PHOTOGRAPHY

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FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

209

INFANTILE

PARALYSIS

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VELMO GO., Dept. ZM, 152 West 42nd St., N. Y. G.

Come to

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for a great
future in

RADIO

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H. C. LEWIS, Pres., RADIO DIV.
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SOD So. Paoflm, BoptM-SE, Siilcago 12

We have facilities for raea with
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RADIO DIV. COYNE ELECTRICAL SCHOOL
500 S. Paulina St., Dent. I4-8&, Chicago 12, Illinois
Send FREE BOOK, “Your Future in Radio”, and details
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NAME.

* ADDRESS *

S I

I CITY STATE _ I

210

FANTASTIC ADVENTURES

Criminal Assaults on Women

"fix" a "tough guy" looking for trouble.
Bullies have learned through sad ex*
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MOW 15 YOUR C HA MCI TO W WHAT
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Hew to tonersoult a man over
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How to flip a man over yo or hip
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How to break a body grip
The answer to a right hook
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How to knock-out an eeemy with
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AND MANY QTHS*$

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• NEW POWER PUBLICATIONS, Dept A-1901
1 441 LEXINGTON AVENUE
I NEW YORX 17, NEW YORK

I Rush LIGHTNING JU-JITSU b plain wrapper together with
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| not do (or me what you daim I may return it wtthle 10 days
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| □ f enclose $1JX)'. Send postage paid. (10 day guarantee
a holds) ,

(Koritfeace nsst #<

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PRINTED IN U. S. A.

nuentian Record

MODERN BUSINESS WANTS INVENTIONS

Practical and novel inventions are in big demand today. The
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MeMORROW & BERMAN

Patent Attorneys

186-C ALBEE BUILDING
WASHINGTON 5, 0= C.

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